  Father in Heaven, I thank Thee for this hour, This blessed hour wherein my contrite soul Humbled and happy bows itself to Thee, Pleading that all its error and its sin May be forgiven—even as I forgive. The cruel wrong swept o'er me like a flood; And my hurt soul in fierce defiance rose, And all forgetful that itself could sin Heaped heavy hatred on the offender's head. There came a calmer hour in which I saw To barter all his better life away— Love, honor, principle—to gain the world. And seeing this I learned to pity him. For well I knew the bauble he had won Would only mock him with its faithless glare; And well I knew the golden fruit he grasped Would be but dust and ashes in his hand; And knowing this I learned to pity him. And as my pity grew it turned to prayer— That when the glitter of the gold was gone, And the sweet fruit was bitter to his taste; When the sad memory of the slighted past Came, and made deeper still the present gloom, The darkness might be lifted, and the Soul, Self-robbed and famishing, might find its way To the green pastures and the springs of life, That in the heart whence love and joy had fled, Whence hope was exiled, there might yet be peace. But suddenly I queried in my heart What power had moved me that I should have prayed For him I counted as my life-long foe. Greatly I marveled what it meant that thus I had called down such blessing upon him— The kindliest boon of heaven, the peace of God. Deep in my soul there came an answering voice: "O Child, it is but this—thou hast forgiven!" Then thanks, O Father, for this plessed hour, Wherein my soul, by Thine own Spirit taught, Prays with no mockery of words Thy prayer: "Forgive my trespasses, as I forgive." |
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