True, hopes deferred may make hearts sick,
But so may hopes fulfilled.
And comfort for a smold’ring wick
May not be what it willed.
For often hopes transfix upon
The means, and so detach
The running from the marathon,
The sewing from the patch.
And what was meant to foster growth
In fear and love of God
Becomes instead a broken oath
Upon the paths we trod.
Tis better far to see the gifts
In light of he who gives
Lest graces be turned into rifts,
Nouns turned to adjectives.
Remember heaven ne’er forgets
Its own. God e’er shall be
Sure hope in spite of fears and frets,
The anchor in the sea.

Photo by Kirill Pershin on Unsplash