It is not mine to run, with eager feet,
Along life's crowded ways, my Lord to meet.
It is not mine to pour the oil and wine
Or bring the purple robe and linen fine.
It is not mine to break at his dear feet
The alabaster box of ointment sweet.
It is not mine to bear his heavy cross,
Or suffer, for his sake, all pain and loss.
It is not mine to walk through valleys dim,
Or climb far mountain heights alone with him.
He hath no need of me in grand affairs,
Where fields are lost or crowns won unawares.
Yet, Master, if I may make one pale flower
Bloom brighter, for thy sake, though one short hour;
If I in harvest fields where strong ones reap,
May bind one golden sheaf for love to keep;
May speak one quiet word when all is still,
Helping some fainting heart to bear thy will;
Or sing some high, clear song on which may soar
Some glad soul heavenward, I ask no more.
--Julia Caroline Ripley Dorr.
Christ wants the best. He in the far-off ages
Once claimed the firstling of the flock, the finest of the wheat;
And still he asks his own with gentlest pleading
To lay their highest hopes and brightest talents at his feet.
He'll not forget the feeblest service, humblest love;
He only asks that of our stores we give to him the best we have.