In the band of noble workers,
Seems no place for such as I—
They have faith, where I have yearning,
They can speak where I but sigh,
They can point the way distinctly
Where for me the shadows lie.

Lofty purpose, strong endeavour,
These are not ordain’d for me—
Wayside flower might strive for ever,
Never could it grow a tree—
Yet a child may laugh to gather,
Or a sick man smile to see.

So I too in God’s creation
Have my own peculiar part,
He must have some purpose surely
For weak hand and timid heart,
Transient joys for my diffusing,
For my healing transient smart.

Just to fling a moment’s brightness
Over dreary down-trod ways,
Just to fan a better impulse
By a full and ready praise—
Pitying where I may not succour,
Loving where I cannot raise.