Non Nobis

Not unto us, O Lord, to tell

Thy purpose in the blast,

When these, that towered beyond us, fell

And we were overpast.

We cannot guess how goodness springs

From the black tempest’s breath,

Nor scan the birth of gentle things

In these red bursts of death.

We only know—from good and great

Nothing save good can flow;

That where the cedar crashed so straight

No crooked tree shall grow;

That from their ruin a taller pride—

Not for these eyes to see—

May clothe one day the valleyside....

Non nobis, Domine.

C. E. W. B.