The folks we meet along the road,
They are a varied throng--
A pilgrim struggling with his load;
The singer of the song;
A youth with bright, expectant gaze,
His face with hope alight;
An old man bowed with many days,
And stumbling toward the night.
The rich, the poor, the high, the low;
The faithless and the true;
The face of joy, the form of woe,
All pass in grand review
We meet, and see their forms no more;
But when the eve is gray
The sweetest thought we ponder o’er
Is whom we’ve helped today.