“HE THAT BELIEVETH SHALL NOT MAKE HASTE.”

The aloes grow upon the sand,

The aloes thirst with parching heat;

Year after year they waiting stand,

Lonely and calm, and front the beat

Of desert winds; and still a sweet

And subtle voice thrills all their veins:

“Great patience wins; it still remains,

After a century of pains,

To you to bloom and be complete.”

I grow upon a thorny waste;

Hot noontide lies on all the way,

And with its scorching breath makes haste

Each freshening dawn to burn and slay,

Yet patiently I bide and stay:

Knowing the secret of my fate,

The hour of bloom, dear Lord, I wait,

Come when it will, or soon or late,

A hundred years are but a day.