A gentle shower of sorrow,
Best cultivates the muse;
For hope, lights up the morrow,
And sheds her joys profuse.
Like clouds before a shower,
Our better passions move;
The darkest cloud hath power,
Our faith and hope to prove.
Our trials teach contrition,
We bend beneath the storm;
Then wait with sweet submission,
The rainbow's lovely form.
Our tears being now subsided,
The flowers of hope will spring;
In God, we have confided,
And now our joys begin.
The lamp of truth is lighted,
To guide our doubtful way;
And we are now invited,
To wait the sun's bright ray.
See o'er the hills descending,
In majesty and love,—
With angels, swift, attending,
Our "Peace Branch" from above.
This love, thus comprehending,
We see a comely form;
'Tis Jesus—see him bending,—
'Tis he that lights the storm.
Like Hermon's dews reviving,
Which fell on Zion's hill;
When grief and hope are striving,
Hope sees a rainbow still.
