The Hand of God

Upon a road not often tread

A weary traveler hangs his head

And as he walks he hums a mournful tune.

A song about his homeland fair,

And how his wand’ring shall end there;

He prays that he might gaze upon it soon.

He hath not shoes, nor bag, nor cloak;

His feet are worn; his body broke;

A tattered book he carries at his side.

And tho’ he looks the beggar’s part

A secret hope doth thrill his heart,

A radiant joy which burgeons like the tide.

The path is narrow, hard and long,

and tho’ his strength is nearly gone,

Some hidden pow’r draws him forward still.

Peace and virtue he hath sought,

Yet grief and toil remain his lot,

And ‘round each bend there lurks some new dark ill.

Were you to ask him why he stays

And journeys on day after day,

He would reply, “My steps are not my own.”

“Sometimes I run; sometimes I walk;

At times I find the road is blocked;

And often I can only sit and groan.”

“I’ve scaled heights and trudged through hollows;

I’ve doubted I would see the morrow;

Yet this great truth shall keep me ever-awed:

When I’ve stumbled, when I’ve tired,

When I’ve crawled through mud and mire,

My ev’ry step was from the hand of God.” 

“Whether wounded and depressed,

Or happy, strong and richly blessed,

He goes before and makes my strait path broad;

The journey is as good as done

For I have trusted in the Son

And ev’ry step comes from the hand of God.”