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
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,
Through 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 one high, clear song,
On which may soar
Some glad soul heavenward,
I ask no more!