'The poet's child died

The poet's child died

One writes of a poet whose pen was eloquent, who wrote many brilliant lines. The world listened and was charmed but not helped, not inspired to better things.

The poet's child died , and then he dipped his pen in his heart's blood and wrote, and the world paused and listened and was blessed and quickened to more beautiful life.

Just so, before we can do anything that is really worth while in helping our fellow-men, we must pass through a training of suffering , in which alone we can learn the lessons that will fit us for this holier service.

"I have refined you, but not as silver is refined. Rather, I have refined you in the furnace of suffering!" Isaiah 48:10

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