Amid the shadows where our sorrows bloom,
The hand divine does weave a silent thread,
Through tears and trials, though we dread the gloom,
A purpose grows where mortal hopes have bled.

The sting of grief, a chisel sharp and cold,
Carves strength within the soul’s unyielding stone,
Each wound a tale of mercy yet untold,
Each scar a seed in sacred soil sown.

When tempests rage and break the heart apart,
His quiet grace sustains through every cry,
For pain, though fierce, refines the fragile art,
A furnace where our truest selves comply.

So trust the One who shapes both joy and strain,
For God, in love, turns loss to endless gain.