While We May by Frances E. Willard

Review and Herald Publishing Association · Washington, D. C. · Aug 27, 1914

While We May

By Frances E. Willard

THE hands are such dear hands; They are so full; they turn at our demands So often; they reach out With trifles scarcely thought about, So many times they’d do So many things for me, for you— If their fond wills mistake, We may well bend, not break.

They are such fond, frail lips That speak to us. Pray, if love strips Them of discretion many times, Or if they speak too slow or quick, such crimes We may pass by; for we may see Days not far off when those small words may be Held not as slow, or quick, or out of place, but dear, Because the lips that spoke are no more here.

They are such dear, familiar feet that go Along the path with ours,— feet fast or slow, And trying to keep pace,— if they mistake Or tread upon some flower that we would take Upon our breast, or bruise some reed, Or crush poor hope until it bleed, We may be mute, Not turning quickly to impute Grave fault; for they and we Have such a little way to go,— can be Together such a little while along the way,— We will be patient while we may.

So many little faults we find, We see them, for not blind Is love. We see them; but if you and I Perhaps remember them some by and by, They will not be Faults then—grave faults—to you and me, But just odd ways,—mistakes, or even less,— Remembrances to bless.

Days change so many things,— yes, hours, We see so differently in sun and showers,— Mistaken words tonight May be cherished by tomorrow’s light. We will be patient; for we know There’s such a little way to go.

—Frances E. Willard.