THE BREVITY OF OUR OPPORTUNITY
I WILL NOT DOUBT IT I will not doubt, though all my ships at sea Come drifting home with broken masts and sails; I will believe the Hand which never fails From seeming evil worketh good for me. And though I weep because those sails are tattered, Still will I cry, while my best hopes lie shattered: I trust in Thee. I will not doubt, though all my prayers return Unanswered from the still, white realm above; I will believe it is an all-wise love Which has refused these things for which I yearn. And though at times I cannot keep from grieving, Yet the pure ardor of fixed believing Undimmed shall burn. I will not doubt, though sorrows fall like rain, And troubles swarm like bees about a hive; I will believe the heights for which I strive Are only reached by anguish and by pain. And though I groan and writhe be neath my crosses, I yet shall see through my severest losses. The greater gain. I will not doubt. Well-anchored is this faith, Like some staunch ship, my soul braves every gale; So strong its courage that it will not quail To face the mighty unknown sea of death. Oh, may I cry, though body parts with spirit, I do not doubt, so listening world may hear it, With my last breath.
Father, I scarcely dare to pray, So clear I see, now it is done, That I have wasted half my day, And left my work but just begun. So clear I see that things I thought Were right or harmless were a sin; So clear I see that I have sought, Unconscious, selfish aims to win. So clear I see that I have hurt The foes I might have helped to save, That I have slothful been, inert, Deaf to the calls Thy Spirit gave. In outskirts of Thy kingdom vast, Father, the humblest spot give me; Set me the lowliest task Thou hast, Let me, repentant, work for Thee. — Helen Hunt Jackson THINGS LEFT UNDONE It isn’t the thing you do, friend, It’s the thing you leave undone Which gives you the bitter heart-ache At the setting of the sun; The tender word forgotten, The letter you did not write, The flower you might have sent, friend, Are your haunting ghosts at night. The stone you might have lifted Out of your brother’s way, The bit of heartsome counsel You were hurried too much to say, The loving touch of the hand, friend, The gentle and winsome tone, That you had no time or thought for, With troubles enough of your own. But life is too short, friend. And sorrow is all too great, To suffer our slow compassion That tarries until too late. And it’s not the thing you do, friend, It’s the thing you leave undone, Which gives you the bitter heart ache, At the setting of the sun.
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