ALTHOUGH HER HANDS ARE PAINFULLY CRIPPLED BY ARTHR ITIS, M AR THA SNELL NICHOLSON CONTINUES TO WRITE. R e m e m b e r T e a r s Some day, up there, perhaps a hundred years Or more from now, when we are through with tears, B u tte rf lie s Imagine making butterflies, To drift between the earth and skies! When God tossed out into the air His every drop of blood for me . . . In me
Is no good thing. My faith, my love, Have not welled up within my sinful heart But are His gifts, sent from above. H ig h H e a r t Because I know the march of suns goes on And after night will surely come the dawn, There is a constant music in my ears, A brilliant rainbow shining through my • tears. But if sometime my heart must make its moan, Because it seems for once too heavy grown, And my tired arms too weak to hold it high — His arms are strong; He holds it up, not I!
Those brilliant bits, fashioned with care, I think He watched with tender mirth As they floated down to earth, Wing scraps of loveliness, Only made to plea«e and bless. I know not why it touches me So very much to think that He Who stretched from pole to pole the sky, Would care to make a butterfly! N o t in M y s e lf I live not by the faith in my own heart, But on the faithful heart of Christ. I live not by the love I feel for Him, But by His love who sacrificed
When we are used to glory, and our eyes Have feasted on His beauty, and surprise After surprise has thrilled our souls, and grace Has opened like a flower and His face Has grown familiar, and we rejoice In all the riches which are ours through Him — Then, peering over Heaven’s golden rim, And looking down through space at this brown ball, Lo, we shall find that scarcely we recall Our tears — but only how it felt that day To have His dear hand wipe them all away!
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