“In Every Thing Give Thanks:”
By Mary Martin Morse
For the bee with his song from the clover,
The bird mounting up to the sky;
For the heavens that lovingly hover
O’er such sinners as you and I; For the rhythm we hear in the river,
And the pictures we see in the clouds,—
The day coming ever and ever
From the mantle that night enshrouds; For the lofty dome bespangled
With its wondrous worlds of light,
That tell of a halcyon day-dawn,
“No weeping,” and “no more night;” For friendship’s sacred chalice,
And the scepter of King Truth;
For the crown of loving-kindness,
That rests on age and youth; For the fairest flowers oft hidden
In the forest’s light so dim,
And rain-drops by God’s own bidding
That whisper of love from him; For the echoes that, repeating,
Life’s sweetest strains prolong,
The ocean that chanteth ever,
And the brooklet’s ceaseless song; For the piles of rock ascending,
Like Babel’s tower, so high,
And the river that in wending,
Enmirrors earth and sky; For the belfry of the bluebell,
Re-echoing chimes for me;
For the blessings that outnumber
The sands of the shifting sea; For all things,— and canst thou say it,
When the heart no longer sings,
And the Hope that rose to heaven,
Lies with battered, broken wings? Or dost shrink from the gall and wormwood,
And recoil from thy Calvary now?
If willing to welcome the spear-thrust,
And joy in the thorn-pierced brow, “Then thou shalt bask in the glory,
When I come to claim my own,—
Faithful in much and in little,
Thou shalt share with me my throne.”