In the evening of His peace and rest
I weed the pasture clear
of stubborn unreality.
Truth, the implement, digs down deep
to turn up stalk and root —
seen and unseen tare.
It overlooks not one.
Here in His infinite range
evil is strange, unknown.
Perfection is reality.
More clearly now I see
green reminders of His care
and walk the misty field.
I am blessed
when I yield
to His peace and rest—
and healed.
