Old songs she would sing, just as a matter of her usual routine, of nothing more, though she was not one to believe in the mockery of faith, not one to be, as she would have expressed it, the stumbling block in another’s path. Lo, she would lift her eyes to the hills from whence cometh help. Thou didst turn Thy face from me, and I was troubled, she sang. For Thou art my strong rock and my castle, so also be my guide. Thou hast covered me, and Thou hast numbered the hairs of my head, and Thou hast closed the wound of my side. Thou hast plucked out the arrows. Song of the shepherd who would lead all sheep home, losing none in narrow defiles, song of the Rock of Ages cleft for me, songs of the Rugged Cross, of the shaded valley, of the still stream, songs of those who reel to and fro and stagger like a drunken man, of the lost soul, of the pinioned wings, of the lighthouse beam which lights the way to the poor wanderer tossed upon the rolling waves far from any harbor. Awake, thou lute and harp, she sang. I myself will awake right early. The waters have drowned us. The stream has gone over our soul.