WHITE BIRD HILL


A preacher went motoring
Down the White Bird hill,

Switchbacks, ever tighter,
Gave his heart a mighty chill,

With wife and child, petrified,
He wrestled the wheel on his own,

Three thrown into the icy river
But the Reverend swam ashore alone,

God hath not promised flower-strewn pathways
All our earthly days thru,

But He hath promised rest for the weary
And strength for what we must do.

by D. Edgar Murray