Is it raining
little flower?
Oh
be glad of rain!
Too much sun would wither thee;
Soon ’twill shine again.
Though the sky is black
’tis true
Yet behind it shines the blue.
Art thou weary
tender heart?
be glad of pain;
Sweetest things in sorrow grow
As the flow’rs in rain.
God is watching
thou’lt have sun
When the clouds their work have done.
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