 | Songs for Sufferers |  |
30
HELPLESS AND HELPED.
I have no voice, no hands, but angels are
My servants ready in the hour that offers
Occasion for them to surmount each bar;
My wingèd feet, they bring me from afar
Pure gold and jewels to enrich my coffers.
In some fond sweetness every day is born,
And when I wake it seems creation's morn.
My servants ready in the hour that offers
Occasion for them to surmount each bar;
My wingèd feet, they bring me from afar
Pure gold and jewels to enrich my coffers.
In some fond sweetness every day is born,
And when I wake it seems creation's morn.
They smooth my pillow with a smiling look,
That turns rough creases into petaled roses
And lights my chamber to the darkest nook;
Yea, like the message of the Holy Book,
Their ministry of kindness round me closes.
The unuttered want is granted ere I know
My need, they parry pain's most bitter blow.
That turns rough creases into petaled roses
And lights my chamber to the darkest nook;
Yea, like the message of the Holy Book,
Their ministry of kindness round me closes.
The unuttered want is granted ere I know
My need, they parry pain's most bitter blow.
Helpless myself, I see the hindrance turn
To something calm and comforting, a ladder
Upraised to heaven for which I sorely yearn;
The obstacles are stepping-stones; I learn
From them the secrets, which make spirits gladder.
My heart an altar is, and glows with flame
That burneth and consumes this mortal frame.
To something calm and comforting, a ladder
Upraised to heaven for which I sorely yearn;
The obstacles are stepping-stones; I learn
From them the secrets, which make spirits gladder.
My heart an altar is, and glows with flame
That burneth and consumes this mortal frame.
| Songs for Sufferers | |