Think not thou livest in vain,
Or that one honest pain
Of thine is lost.
He, who in loving care,
Numbers thine every hair,
Knows all the cost.
No lightest care of thine
Escapes His love divine;
No smile's forgot,
Nor cup of water given.
Each tender, loving deed,
Like some strange, precious seed,
Shall bear its fruit in heaven.
Nor dream, if thou wert gone
From out life's troubled throng
Thou'dst not be missed.
Thou knowest not what heart,
That lives in gloom apart,
Would find its sunshine fled
If thou wert dead--
What slender thread of faith would break
If thou shouldest prove untrue.
The flower that blooms in desert place
And lifts its head with winsome grace,
Might sigh: "Alas; ah, me:
Why should I live where none can see?"
But He who made both field and flood,
Hath formed that flower and called it good,
And in His wisdom placed it there
To make the desert seem more fair:
And if He then hath need of flowers
To deck this barren world of ours,
He hath a use for thee!
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