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There Is A Mystery in Human Hearts

By unknown

There is a mystery in human hearts,

And though we be encircled by a host

Of those who love us well and are beloved,

To every one of us, from time to time,

There comes a sense of utter loneliness.

Our dearest friend is stranger to our joy,

And cannot realize our bitterness.

“There is no one who really understands,

No one to enter into all I feel”;

Such is the cry of each of us in turn.

We wander in a solitary way;

No matter what or where our lot may be,

Each heart, mysterious even to itself,

Must live its inner life in solitude.

And would you know the reason why this is?

It is because the Lord desires our love,

In every heart He wishes to be first.

He therefore keeps the secret key Himself,

To open all its chambers and to bless

With perfect sympathy and holy peace,

Each solitary soul which comes to Him.

And when beneath some heavy cross you faint,

And say, “I cannot bear this load alone,”

You say the truth: God made it purposely

So heavy that you must return to Him.

The bitter grief which no one understands,

Conveys a secret message from the King,

Entreating you to come to Him again.

You cannot come too often or too near;

The God of mercy is infinite in grace.

His presence satisfies the longing soul,

And those who walk with Him from day to day

Can never have “a solitary way.”

He Maketh No Mistake

By A.M. Overton

My Father’s way may twist and turn,

My heart may throb and ache,

But in my soul I’m glad I know,

He maketh no mistake.

My cherished plans may go astray,

My hopes may fade away,

But still I’ll trust my Lord to lead,

For He doth know the way.

Tho’ night be dark and it may seem

That day will never break,

I’ll pin my faith, my all in Him;

He maketh no mistake.

There’s so much now I cannot see,

My eyesight’s far too dim,

But come what may, I’ll simply trust,

And leave it all to Him.

For by and by the mist will lift,

And plain it all He’ll make.

Through all the way, though dark to me,

He maketh not one mistake.

The Weaver

By Grant Colfax Tullar

My life is but a weaving

Between the Lord and me,

I cannot choose the colors

He worketh steadily.

Oft times He weaveth sorrow,

And I in foolish pride

Forget He sees the upper,

And I, the underside.

Not till the loom is silent

And the shuttles cease to fly

Shall God unroll the canvas

And explain the reason why.

The dark threads are as needful

In the Weaver’s skillful hand,

As the threads of gold and silver

In the pattern He has planned.

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