Poetry

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When you toil among the hedges,
And the thorns and briars know,
And receive your pricks and bruises
Where the wild roses grow,
Do not think you've been forgotten
Or the Master doesn't care,
That your toil has been for nothing,
That he doesn't see you there.

And don't envy all your brothers,
As they work around the King,
And your sisters planting roses
Near his window while they sing.
Don't be fretful, sad and gloomy,
As you work in windy vale,
Keeping little lambs from stumbling
While you guide them to the dale--

Oh, your voice you should be lifting,
With a song both loud and sweet,
For the King himself will find you,
And his hands will wash your feet,
And he'll say, "My faithful servant,
I have seen your labor true,
From the heights I spied devotion,
In the many things you do--"

Then a golden crown he'll give you,
And a kiss upon the cheek,
The reward of chosen servants,
Who will only his will seek.

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