The Presence of Christ
By Margaret E. Sangster
HERE, in my workshop where I toil
Till head and hands are well-nigh spent;
Out on the road where dust and soil
Fall thick on garments worn and rent;
Or in the kitchen where I bake
The bread the little children eat,
He comes, his hand of strength I take,
And every homely task grows sweet. I sit among the books I love,
Or bend above life's dearest Book,
Softer than wing of whitest dove,
Kinder than friend's most winsome look,
He broods upon the page I read;
He tells me he is at my side,
Even here he gives what most I need,
And stays by me, my blessed Guide. The tempter dares an evil spell
To weave around my wayward mood;
His baleful minions fain would dwell
With me in desert solitude.
But, ere men's craft can drag me down,
One strong to save defeats their end,
One once who wore hate's thorny crown,
One evermore my deathless friend. O Master, while the moments drift
So fast away, till night draws near,
Be with me still that I may lift
Unceasingly my song of cheer.
I would not have an hour apart
From thee, sweet Lover, matchless King.
Abide with me. Take thou my heart.
Low at thy feet myself I fling. —Margaret E. Sangster, in the Interior.