We ask and are answered not,
And so we say, God has forgot,
Or else, there is no God.
Roll back and through a mist of tears,
I see a child turn from her play,
And seek with eager feet, the way
That led her to her father’s knee.
“If God is wise and kind,” said she,
“Why did He let my roses die?”
A moment’s pause, a smile, a sigh,
And then, “I do not know my dear,
Some questions are not answered here.”
“But is it wrong to ask?” “Not so,
My child; that we should seek to know
Proves right to know, beyond a doubt;
And some day we shall yet find out
Why roses die.”
And then I wait,
Sure of my answer, soon or late;
Secure that love doth hold for me
The key to life’s great mystery;
And oh, so glad to leave it there,
tho’ my dead roses were so fair.