Is this desert a wasteland punctuated by oases? Or does it teem with life, with mere moments of barrenness?
My hard days, my dark days, are they continual torment or are they episodes?
This is the moment of trial, which passes. Before it is the torture of anticipation, and behind it is the bitter memory.
Wherefore do I complain, then, of such woe? The before and after are illusion, and I yet breathe through the challenging moments.
I must, then, live among the palm fronds. Ease is mine. Thank you, Lord.