Most are dreadfully disparate
Don’t care to thorns, bricks or mud
Only serious to going forward
The path is now bloody artwork,
With our and Father’s bloody foot prints
Sometime crashing with rock,
Falling into drainage ditch
How unhappy and perilous our journey!
To look this scene; Father said with heartache–
“Oh! My children stop and stop,
Come and go to my way.”
« return.