We are passing through the Valley,
And the road is sometimes steep,
And the mountains all around us
Often make the shadows deep.
'Tis the narrow Vale of Baca,
'Tis the valley full of shade;
But we're only passing through it,
So we need not be afraid.
Far away the land of Beulah
Wrapped in sunlight may be seen,
And this little bit of valley
Is now all that lies between.
Just beyond it is the sunshine,
Just beyond it is our home.
When we reach it, 'twill not matter
By what valley we have come.
One there is Who trod the Valley,
And He suffered much from thirst.
He was weary, worn and footsore
As He trod the way the first.
But His footsteps made the pathway
Which we now may safely tread,
And it makes the road more easy
When we know He's just ahead.
Just before He left the Valley
And emerged into the light,
All His friends He gathered round Him
E'er He vanished out of sight.
Words of comfort then were spoken
To the travelers in the vale.
Not one promise that He made them
Has been ever known to fail.—W. D. Morrow
(Ps. 23. 4; 84. 6; Isa. 43. 1, 2; John 16. 33)
I stood upon the hillside
In driving mist and rain.
The wind was round me whistling
A sobbing, sad refrain.
But away across the valley
The hill was bathed in light,
And in its golden glory
Was radiantly bright.
But would I reach that hillside
This valley I must tread:
The glory of the sunlight
Is to the valley wed.
And so, methought, how often
The story of our years
Is but a glimpse of glory
Through vision cleared by tears.—F. H. Oakley
(Deut. 11. 11; 1 Sam. 17. 3; 1 Kings 20. 28; Luke 3. 5)