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The Winter Rain
The rain comes down, it comes without our call;Each pattering drop knows well its destined place,
And soon the fields whereon the blessings fall,
Shall change their frosty look for Spring's sweet face;
So fall the words thy Holy Spirit sends,
Upon the heart where Winter's robe is flung;
They shall go forth as certain of their ends,
As the wet drops from out thy vapors wrung;
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Shall bud and bloom upon the sinful heart;
Yet when it buds, forever there it blows,
And hears no Winter bid its bloom depart;
It strengthens with his storms, and grows more bright,
When o'er the earth is cast his mantle white.
Poem No. 548; c. January 1839
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