Some glorious morn--but when? Ah, who will say?
The steepest mountain will become a plain,
And the parched land be satisfied with rain.
The gates of brass all broken; iron bars,
Transfigured, form a ladder to the stars.
Rough places plain, and crooked ways all straight,
For him with with a patient heart can wait.
These things will be on God's appointed day:
It may not be tomorrow--yet it may.