The Verse-Book Of A Homely Woman | Page 6

grant all these
To one who prays, but cannot
sit at ease?
They do not know,
The passers-by, who go
Up to Thy house, with
saintly faces set;
Who throng about Thy seat,
And sing Thy praises
sweet,
Till vials full of odours cloud Thy feet;
They do not know . . .

And, if they knew, then would they greatly
care
That Thy tired handmaid washed the
children's hair;
Or, with red roughened hands, scoured
dishes well,
While through the window called the
evening bell?
And that her seeking soul looks upward
yet,
THEY do not know . . . but THOU wilt
not forget
A Woman in Hospital
I know it all . . . I know.
For I am God. I am Jehovah, He
Who
made you what you are; and I can
see
The tears that wet your pillow night by
night,
When nurse has lowered that too-brilliant
light;
When the talk ceases, and the ward grows
still,
And you have doffed your will:
I know the anguish and the
helplessness.
I know the fears that toss you to and fro.
And how
you wrestle, weariful,
With hosts of little strings that pull
About

your heart, and tear it so.
I know.
Lord, do You know
I had no time to put clean curtains up;
No time
to finish darning all the socks;
Nor sew clean frilling in the children's
frocks?
And do You know about my Baby's cold?
And how things
are with my sweet threeyear
-old?
Will Jane remember right
Their cough mixture at night?

And will she ever think
To brush the kitchen flues, or scrub the
sink?
And then, there's John! Poor tired
lonely John!
No one will run to put his slippers on.
And not a soul
but me
Knows just exactly how he likes his tea.
It rends my heart to
think I cannot go
And minister to him. . . .
I know. I know.
Then, there are other things,
Dear Lord . . . more little strings
That
pull my heart. Now Baby feels her
feet
She loves to run outside into the street
And Jane's hands are so
full, she'll never
see. . . .
And I'm quite sure the clean clothes won't
be aired --
At least, not properly.
And, oh, I can't, I really can't be
spared --
My little house calls so!
I know.
And I am waiting here to help and bless.
Lay down your
head. Lay down your hopelessness
And let Me speak.
You are so weary, child, you are so weak.
But let
us reason out
The darkness and the doubt;
This torturing fear that

tosses you about.
I hold the universe. I count the stars.
And out of shortened lives I
build the
ages. . . .
But, Lord, while such high things Thy
thought engages,
I fear -- forgive me -- lest
Amid those limitless
eternal spaces
Thou shouldest, in the high and heavenly
places,
Pass over my affairs as things of nought.
There are so many
houses just like mine.
And I so earth-bound, and Thyself Divine.
It
seems impossible that Thou shouldst
care
Just what my babies wear;
And what John gets to eat; . . . and
can it be
A circumstance of great concern to Thee
Whether I live or
die?
Have you forgotten then, My child, that I,
The Infinite, the Limitless,
laid down
The method of existence that I knew,
And took on Me a
nature just like you?
I laboured day by day
In the same dogged way

That you have tackled household tasks.
And then,
Remember, child, remember once again
Your own
beloveds . . . did you really
think --
(Those days you toiled to get their meat
and drink,
And made their clothes, and tried to understand
Their little ailments) -- did you think your
hand,
Your feeble hand, was keeping them from ill?
I gave them
life, and life is more than meat;
Those little limbs, so comely and so
sweet.
You can make raiment for them, and are glad,
But can you

add
One cubit to their stature? Yet they grow!
Oh, child, hands off!
Hands off! And
leave them so.
I guarded hitherto, I guard them still.
I have let go at last. I have let go.
And, oh, the rest it is, dear God, to
know
My dear ones are so safe, for Thou wilt
keep.
Hands off, at last! Now, I can go to
sleep.
In Convalescence
Not long ago, I prayed for dying
grace,
For then I thought to see Thee face to
face.
And now I ask (Lord, 'tis a weakling's
cry)
That Thou wilt give me grace to live, not
die.
Such foolish prayers! I know. Yet
pray I must.
Lord help me -- help me not to see the
dust!
And not to nag, nor fret because the blind
Hangs crooked, and the
curtain sags behind.
But, oh! The kitchen cupboards! What a
sight!
'T'will take at least a month to get them

right.
And that last cocoa had a smoky taste,
And all the milk has boiled
away to waste!
And -- no, I resolutely will not think
About the saucepans, nor about
the sink.
These light afflictions are but temporal
things --
To rise above them, wilt Thou lend me
wings?
Then I shall smile when Jane,