Classic Poem

The storm is past a weary storm
& like a broken tree
Whose fragment still with hope is green
So do I turn to thee

I come before thee like a child
Unknowing if I sin
I come with every hope beguiled
& think thoult take me in.

Rough tho the road I travel now
& weary tho I be
Yet hope doth cool my burning brow
& look for rest in thee.

The burning fevers fury storm
Hath numbed my vacant brain
& like a crushed & wounded worm
I turn for rest in vain.

I wreethed on this & every side
But pain was still with me
& I in restlessness had dyed
If not upheld by thee.

I know thou didst my being form
& shape my destiny
& tho a weak & wounded worm
Thy hand assisted me.

I felt thou wert my maker then
Shall feel it to mine end
& that same love that fashioned me
In sickness was a friend.