The days are dazed with busyness and glazed with the doldrums
and my heart swings the pendulum between dance and ache
and this morning I woke with a hymn in my head:
This is my Father's world.
Six weeks ago in my parents' house I touched the keys of the Yamaha grand piano, making melody, so that my mother and my ten-year-old niece and I could sing together:
This is my Father's world- and to my listening ears
All nature sings and round me rings the music of the spheres
My mother teaches my sister's daughter Latin and writing and geography
once a week "Grammy-school" lessons, and how perfect in the study of this wide beautiful world to give the heart and mind a reminder, every time, that this wide beautiful world belongs to Him.
This is my Father's world– I rest me in the thought
Of rocks and trees, of skies and seas
His hand the wonders wrought.
Last week I flew East to journey with the Pilot's parents to the little town where the Pilot and I travel next, hunting for a home– and I reveled in the lush and the green and the blossoming Spring that surrounded me:
This is my Father's world– the birds their carols raise
The morning light, the lily white, declare their Maker's praise.
Before we left we went to a garden with swans and turtles and sentinel cypresses guarding the water, and I wanted to soak in the beauty with thirsty heart, for in all of us is a heart that will not be satisfied until we drink in His beauty:
This is my Father's world– He shines in all that's fair
In the rustling grass I hear Him pass
He speaks to me everywhere
In this little town, in the house that we hope will be our home, a new adventure and a hard one waits, for three months is all the Pilot and I will have together in it before he leaves me for half-a-world away and I will count the days, weeks, months till he returns. News that bites and clings: I can't shake free, and it will hold on until October takes him away, and my weary heart returns over and over to this: it is still my Father's world.
This is my Father's world– O let me ne'er forget
That though the wrong seems oft so strong
God is the Ruler yet.
In the face of every pain and wrong and hurt, whose strength batters and shatters and leaves desolate– I have a Father, and He is the Ruler.
This is my Father's world– the battle is not done
Jesus who died will be satisfied
And earth and heaven shall be one.
The promise is there in every taste of beauty and every bitter draught of hurt: nothing is waste, it is the delight of Him who died to redeem– because this is my Father's world.