When the worries of this world
Have grown too strong and woe’s unfurled
And drives me from my normal place
In search of some relief,
Wisdom bids me sort it out
Instead of sitting down to pout—
Which lures me ever to disgrace,
My ship upon the reef.
But sorting is no simple chore
When one can’t see down to his core
And lacks the expertise to trace
Each motive and belief.
So when the trouble lies that deep
And hope is slipping from its keep
It’s then I need that friendly face
Who’ll understand my grief.
