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I want to share in closing a poem, based in Job 13:15, written by a lady named Mary Kimbrough:

“Though He slay me, I will trust Him,”

Said the sainted Job of old;

“Though He try me in the furnace,

I shall then come forth as gold.

“Though the ‘worms of deep affliction’

Cause this body to decay,

In my flesh I shall behold Him —

My Redeemer—some glad day.”

“Though He slay me”—can I say it

When I feel the searing fire,

When my fondest dreams lie shattered —

Gone my hope and fond desire?

“Though ...

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