She was frail as a petal
A dandelion in the wind,
Sun scorched and drooping
As though a weight
Hung from her chin-
As though no beam
Could ever rise her,
And no arms could support
That limp and weary frame,
A stringless puppet
Bowed apart.

Others held their places
Like fortresses of old,
No kicking seemed to budge them,
Their faces stern and bold.

And some had easy laughter
And a carefree kind of sway,
They flittered and they fluttered,
Humming through the day.

“What have I to offer?”
The bruised reed said
From the ground,
“The glory’s gone over my head
But I am sinking down.
Up above the light is shining,
Sweet perfume fills the air,
But down here is decaying,
And an awful load of care.”

Lift your head dear one,
The seed of faith still dwells
And is girded from beneath
Though it endures a thousand hells.

Fear not, a river runs below,
Refreshing times will come,
Green leaves will push the dead rot through
And spread towards the sun.

You feel now forsaken,
But do not trust despair-
Its’ certainties of endless doom
Forget God’s tender care.

Deliverance will come at last
And while you crumpled wait,
‘Tis God who makes the weakest strong
And triumphs before late.