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The Word (Poem)

Lo, I am with thee, even to the end;
Though thou be sore bereft, though every friend
Forsake or disappoint thee, I am thine,
To strengthen thee and help, and thou art Mine.

My Love will not forsake thee, though the light
Is blotted for a while from thy soul's sight,
Sweet as the scent of flowers on summer's day
Myself will come to succor thee, and stay.

Nor will I leave thee. Through each busy year
Thou shalt be conscious that support is near,
Comforts may fail, friends change, and hearts' warmth die,
One, one alone abideth—"It is I."

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Winifred A. Cook

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