He Maketh No Mistake

By A. M. Overton
This week I received two nice letters along with much literature from Joyce Fisher, a 93-year-old widow in El Cajon, California. Ed and Joyce were always evangelical-minded. I've known Joyce for many years;

This week I received two nice letters along with much literature from Joyce Fisher, a 93-year-old widow in El Cajon, California.  Ed and Joyce were always evangelical-minded. I’ve known Joyce for many years; in fact, she and her late husband were instrumental in bringing Angela and I together at a Bible Conference.  (Angela tells the story better than I.)  Two poems caught my attention, and I thought to share them with you.

My Father's way may twist and turn,

My heart may throb and ache,

But in my soul I'm glad I know,

He maketh no mistake.


My cherished plans may go astray,

My hopes may fade away,

But still I'll trust my Lord to lead

For He doth know the way.


Though night be dark and it may seem

That day will never break;

I’ll pin my faith, my all in Him,

He maketh no mistake.


There's so much now I cannot see,

My eyesight's far too dim;

But come what may, I'll simply trust

And leave it all to Him.


For by and by the mist will lift

And plain it all He'll make,

Through all the way, though dark to me,

He made not one mistake.


According to the author's granddaughter, “the poem was written in 1932 by my grandfather, a pastor in Mississippi named A. M. Overton, who had a wife and three small children. His wife was pregnant with their fourth child but when it came time for delivery, there were complications and both she and the baby died. During the funeral service, the preacher officiating the service noticed my grandfather writing something on a piece of paper. After the service the minister asked him about it, and he handed him the paper with a poem he had just written during the service which he titled, ‘He Maketh No Mistake.’”

The next poem is anonymous and titled “A Song of Sweetness”.

Once I heard a song of sweetness,

As it cleft the morning air.

Sounding in its blest completeness

Like a tender, pleading prayer;

And I sought to find the singer,

Whence the wondrous song was borne;

And I found a bird, sore wounded,

Pinioned by a cruel thorn.


I have seen a soul in sadness,

While its wings with pain were furl'd,

Giving hope, and cheer and gladness

That should bless a weeping world;

And I knew a life of sweetness,

Was of pain and sorrow borne,

And a stricken soul was singing,

With its heart against a thorn.


Ye are told of One who loved you,

Of a Saviour crucified,

Ye are told of nails that pinioned,

And a spear that pierced His side;

Ye are told of cruel scourging,

Of a Saviour bearing scorn,

And He died for your salvation,

With His brow against a thorn.


Ye "are not above the Master."

Will you breathe a sweet refrain?

And His grace will be sufficient,

When your heart is pierced with pain.

Will you live to bless His loved ones,

Tho your life be bruised and torn,

Like the bird that sang so sweetly,

With its heart against a thorn?

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