GOD'S BANK AIN'T BUSTED YET: An Old Poem from the Great Depression Times

By Mrs. Bessie Tichelaar

The bank had closed; my earthly store had vanished from my hand;
I felt there was no sadder one than I in all the land.
My washerwoman, too, had lost her little mite with mine,
And she was singing as she hung the clothes upon the line.
"How can you be so gay?" I asked. "Your loss, don't you regret?"
"Yes, ma'am, but what's the use to fret?
"God's bank ain't busted yet."

I felt my burden lighter grow, her faith I seemed to share;
In prayer I went to God's great throne and laid my burden there.
The sun burst from behind the clowds in golden splendor set;
I thanked God for her simple words:
"God's bank ain't busted yet."

And now I draw rich dividends, more than my hands can hold,
Of faith and hope, and love and trust, and peace of mind untold.
I thank the Giver of it all, but still I can't forget
My washerwoman's simple words:
"God's bank ain't busted yet."

Oh, weary one upon life's road, when everything seems drear,
And losses loom on every side, and skies are not so clear;
Throw back your shoulders, lift your head and cease to chafe and fret.
Your dividends will be declared;
"God's bank ain't busted yet"