codex002489-011r

Perhaps.
Laura Brown.

It is not for me to sing the songs
That rush with a thrill, to the heart
It is not for me with pen or brush,
To glorify nature and art.
It is not for me to wield the sword
Without reproach or fear,
There are only left the quiet paths
That no one, counteth dear.
Just to sit and bear it, beside the way
With no regret or pain,
While others achieve the things I love
And take what I would gain.
T'is to give my soul by slow degrees
To the healing of other's woes,
And to kiss the cross, I bear my part
From the morning of life to its close.
But there stands the Christ, with wounded hands,
The Christ with His tender heart
Perhaps it is love that moves the world
And I, may be bearing my part.

Perhaps.
Laura Brown.

It is not for me to sing the songs
That rush with a thrill, to the heart
It is not for me with pen or brush,
To glorify nature and art.
It is not for me to wield the sword
Without reproach or fear,
There are only left the quiet paths
That no one, counteth dear.
Just to sit and bear it, beside the way
With no regret or pain,
While others achieve the things I love
And take what I would gain.
T'is to give my soul by slow degrees
To the healing of other's woes,
And to kiss the cross, I bear my part
From the morning of life to its close.
But there stands the Christ, with wounded hands,
The Christ with His tender heart
Perhaps it is love that moves the world
And I, may be bearing my part.