A thousand accidents control
Our meeting here. Clasp hand in hand,
And swear to meet me in that land
Where friends hold converse soul to soul.
“Do you give thanks for this?—or
that?” No, God be thanked
I am not grateful
In that cold, calculating way, with blessings ranked
As one, two, three, and four,—that would be hateful.
I only know that every day brings
My poor deserving;
I only feel that in the road of Life true Love
Is leading me along and never swerving.
Whatever gifts and mercies to my
lot may fall,
I would not measure
As worth a certain price in praise, or great or small;
But take and use them all with simple pleasure.
For when we gladly eat our daily
bread, we bless
The Hand that feeds us;
And when we tread the road of Life in cheerfulness,
Our very heart-beats praise the Love that leads us.
With eager heart and will on fire,
I strove to win my great desire.
“Peace shall be mine,” I said; but life
Grew bitter in the barren strife.
My soul was weary, and my pride
Was wounded deep; to Heaven I cried,
“God grant me peace or I must die;”
The dumb stars glittered no reply.
Broken at last, I bowed my head,
Forgetting all myself, and said,
“Whatever comes, His will be done;”
And in that moment peace was won.
Saints are God’s flowers, fragrant
That His own hand hath planted,
Not in some far-off heavenly place,
Or solitude enchanted,
But here and there and everywhere,—
In lonely field, or crowded town,
God sees a flower when He looks down.
Some wear the lily’s stainless white,
And some the rose of passion,
And some the violet’s heavenly blue,
But each in its own fashion,
With silent bloom and soft perfume,
Is praising Him who from above
Beholds each lifted face of love.
One such I knew,—and had the
To thank my God for knowing:
The beauty of her quiet life
Was like a rose in blowing,
So fair and sweet, so all-complete
And all unconscious, as a flower,
That light and fragrance were her dower.
No convent-garden held this rose,
Concealed like secret treasure;
No royal terrace guarded her
For some sole monarch’s pleasure.
She made her shrine, this saint of mine,
In a bright home where children played;
And there she wrought and there she prayed.
In sunshine, when the days were glad,
She had the art of keeping
The clearest rays, to give again
In days of rain and weeping;
Her blessed heart could still impart
Some portion of its secret grace,
And charity shone in her face.