The mountain stream carries blessings,
For which the lowlands wait,But spring can turn a gentle stream
Into a rushing spate
That leaps its banks to overflow,
Destroying as it goes,
All of the land it passes through,
Until nothing still grows.
For, what nurtures through gentle touch,
Can destroy with great haste,
And blessings turn to disasters,
Leaving ruin and waste.
We, too can be like that wild stream,
Nourishing in its flow
Or move on forward in such haste
That loss is all we sow.
Lord help me to slow down a bit
As I move through each day,
That I may leave more blessings than
Disasters on my way.
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