p. 12 | Self by ELIZA H. MORTON

Review and Herald Publishing Association · Takoma Park Station, Washington, D. C. · Feb 14, 1907

Self

By ELIZA H. MORTON

ELIZA H. MORTON

HIDDEN, perchance, ’neath a smiling face, Or cloak of what seems a Christian grace, There lurks a foe with a venom dire That eats the heart like a coal of fire: It is self.

So subtle and sly this demon fierce, That many a soul his arrows pierce. You’ll know this foe by his boasting cry Of “I and I; ah, yes, it is I.” It is self.

Who wants all credit for what is done In city or church beneath the sun? Who wants his name to always appear, And sets it up like an auctioneer? It is self.

Who builds his bridges from man to man, And grasps all ropes to strengthen his plan? Who tramples the feelings of others low, And laughs at their pain and their overthrow? It is self.

There’s hope, sweet hope, for a soul thus bound; In One that is mighty help is found. No more the cry, “It is I, ’tis I.” When self is ready to yield and die, It is Christ.

North Deering, Maine.