The Daily Dispatch

Humility.

No royal purple binds my book of prayer,
Nor is the volume clasped with golden bands,
Nor do my lips, grave, feigned accents wear,
Nor do I pray, as some, with folded hands,
For thou, O God, my inmost soul canst see—
Its good, its evil, Lord, are known to Thee.

No incense-burning censer do I swing,
Diffusing fragrance through the Sabbath air;
But unto Thee my grief and sorrow bring,
And breathe into Thine ear mine agony.
A contrite heart, O God, Thou'lt not despise,
A broken heart's Thy sweetest sacrifice.

Behind dark clouds which overcast the sky
The sun's rich splendor's often hid from view;
And varying on the wild, storm-shaken sea,
The needle to its star seems oft untrue.
After the clouds the sun shines out again,
And storms but make the needle bend in vain.

Thus passion's storms within me sometimes rise,
And, O, I fear, they turn my heart from Thee;
Thus clouds obscure its bright and happy skies,
In anger then Thou hid'st Thy face from me.
Upon these passions, Lord, Thy holy hand
But lay, for they are stilled at Thy command.