The workings of my sorrows,
by Dennis Gobin
Is to the better of my soul.
The multitude of errors,
Is of learning to behold.
For rare does a man excel,
In the joy of constant praise.
It's in trouble that character dwells,
Or in the hardship of his days.
So worry not my friend, upon the soul of happiness.
Much better is one with sadness, than a heart of ugliness.
Another time will be, the result of those emotions.
For now the view is real, in the man of true devotion.