I ain’t no hand at preachin’ an’ I can’t expound the creeds;
I fancy every fellow’s faith must satisfy his needs
Or he would hunt for something else.  An’ I can’t tell the why
An’ wherefore of the doctrines deep—­and what’s more I don’t try. 
I reckon when this life is done and we can know His plan,
God won’t be hard on anyone who’s tried to be a man.

My religion doesn’t hinge on some one rite or word;
I hold that any honest prayer a mortal makes is heard;
To love a church is well enough, but some get cold with pride
An’ quite forget their fellowmen for whom the Saviour died;
I fancy he best worships God, when all is said an’ done,
Who tries to be, from day to day, a friend to everyone.

If God can mark the sparrow’s fall, I don’t believe He’ll fail
To notice us an’ how we act when doubts an’ fears assail;
I think He’ll hold what’s in our hearts above what’s in our creeds,
An’ judge all our religion here by our recorded deeds;
An’ since man is God’s greatest work since life on earth began,
He’ll get to Heaven, I believe, who helps his fellowman.

What I Call Living

The miser thinks he’s living when he’s hoarding up his gold;
The soldier calls it living when he’s doing something bold;
The sailor thinks it living to be tossed upon the sea,
And upon this vital subject no two of us agree. 
But I hold to the opinion, as I walk my way along,
That living’s made of laughter and good-fellowship and song.

I wouldn’t call it living always to be seeking gold,
To bank all the present gladness for the days when I’ll be old. 
I wouldn’t call it living to spend all my strength for fame,
And forego the many pleasures which to-day are mine to claim. 
I wouldn’t for the splendor of the world set out to roam,
And forsake my laughing children and the peace I know at home. 
Oh, the thing that I call living isn’t gold or fame at all!

It’s good-fellowship and sunshine, and it’s roses by the wall;
It’s evenings glad with music and a hearth fire that’s ablaze,
And the joys which come to mortals in a thousand different ways. 
It is laughter and contentment and the struggle for a goal;
It is everything that’s needful in the shaping of a soul.

If This Were All

If this were all of life we’ll know,
  If this brief space of breath
Were all there is to human toil,
  If death were really death,
And never should the soul arise
  A finer world to see,
How foolish would our struggles seem,
  How grim the earth would be!

If living were the whole of life,
  To end in seventy years,
How pitiful its joys would seem! 
  How idle all its tears! 
There’d be no faith to keep us true,
  No hope to keep us strong,
And only fools would cherish dreams—­
  No smile would last for long.