More bad poetry

(Actually there's a tune running through my head for it. So perhaps it's a poorly written song as much as bad poetry.)

The Clouds

On dreary days, when all the world is grey and dark,
And in the air there hangs the taste of woe,
I sometimes think that there's no feeble little spark
That can dispel the clouds that gloomier grow.
And when I think on losses hard and heavy,
Sometimes I wonder why I must endure;
But I remember that my Father levies
Only that which my triumph will procure.

Well do I know my Savior bore my anguish
And that He bore my burden hard for me
So I'll not low in sorrow pine and languish
But stop to pray and thus make myself free.
Then I'll recall the joys that I now live with,
And the delight I had with those now gone,
Thus will I scrape the sorrow down to find the pith
Of joy that bears me up as I march on.