A prophet voice cried in the long past ages:
"O comfort ye my people, saith your God;"
And they who let the dead past seal his pages,
Of comfort nigh at hand themselves defraud.
God's people wander still in barren places,
And hunger for the good that's undenied;
They heavenward turn their sad and weary faces,
And pray for what already is supplied.
Athirst they wander, tasting bitter waters,
Or stagger on by some mirage allured;
As were their fathers, so the sons and daughters
Are blind to comfort promised and assured.
But one who heard the little children crying,
And viewed the people's faces drawn with woe,
Even as the prophet on the unseen relying,
Found God the source whence joy and comfort flow.
Like to a host the brackish pools forsaking
When good news comes of fountains flowing pure,
The people turn from sadness and heart-aching;
And comforted, find plenishment and cure.
