Poetry

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The Trysting Place

Grace, grace! All is grace
That comes from God's benevolent hand...
Salvation, blessing, yea, suffering too,
Though it's hard to understand.

For suffering drives the wounded saint
Not to defeat or woe,
But to a secret, hallowed place...
Upon his knees he'll go.

He listens not to Arrogance
Who shouts, "Don't kneel. Stand tall!"
But with trembling faith and humility
Bows his knee, his heart, his all.

And there before his loving Lord
He vows, "I shall not fear,
For in the presence of my God
There's mercy, comfort, cheer."

O what unspeakable joys await
This saint who fears not Satan's blow!
He enters a fellowship so tender and dear
That an unbowing world cannot know.

For the cares of his heart there's simplicity,
For sorrows songs in the night.
For the sins of his soul there is mercy,
For darkness wisdom and light.

When lonely he'll find a Brother,
When suffering comfort and grace.
Yea, all that a Pilgrim e'er could need
Is found at the Trysting Place.

So come, suffering saint, to this hallowed ground,
Let God dry thy tearful eyes.
Come where God's grace and glory abound...
Now in His strength... Arise!

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