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ONE OF THE DORCASES

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Pacific Press Publishing Company · Oakland, California · Jul 21, 1898

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 24, No. 29.

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ONE OF THE DORCASES.

By Fannie E. Bolton

THERE was once a poor woman Who lived all alone, She had little to come to her, Little to own; But bravely she struggled, As do the spring crocuses, And thought that she ought to be One of the Dorcases. God bless the Dorcases.
She went to the mission, And worked for the poor, She helped to distribute Kind gifts at the door, And never she uttered A word to the caucuses About any poverty; She was one of the Dorcases. God bless the Dorcases.
And many a sorrow Was brought to her ear, And sweet was the comfort She offered to cheer. When sad tales of poverty Brought such a shock to us, She’d point out the privilege Of being a Dorcas. God bless the Dorcases.
One day at the mission She didn’t appear. The sisters all thought it was Marvelously queer; For of all faithful creatures That came to their caucuses, ’Twas the bright little woman, Who prayed for the Dorcases. God bless the Dorcases.
They talked of her sunshine, They talked of her dress; Where she lived, or who kept her, They never could guess. She was poor, that was certain; But yet what a stock she was, Never speaking of trouble, But all of the Dorcases. God bless the Dorcases.
They searched up her dwelling, They found her in bed; No fire on the hearthstone, In the larder no bread. They warmed her and fed her, And made a tremendous fuss; For she whispered a blessing On all of the Dorcases. God bless the Dorcases.
She raved about India, And the famine field there; She thought all her garments To Hindus to spare; She thought Matabeleland Ought to make work for us, But said no attention Should be sought for a Dorcas. God bless the Dorcases.
In brain-weary ravings She told of her need, As with the great Father She often would plead. But ever she murmured, “Not for me, Lord, but work for us In blessing the charity Done by the Dorcases. God bless the Dorcases.”
In spite of the sisters She sank into rest; She pillowed her head On the Saviour’s kind breast. And the poor came in crowds, Crying, “O, how she worked for us! She was one of the holy ones, One of the Dorcases. God bless the Dorcases.””
And, O, when the dead arise Out of the dust, There’ll be many a Dorcas Who’s lived on a crust, Who out of her poverty Gave and ne’er made a fuss, Whom the angels will crown As a genuine Dorcas. God bless the Dorcases.
In the back of the temple There’s sometimes a room That nobody hears of, That’s filled with perfume, Where sisters unheard of Practise all that is prayed for us, Yet few are the preachers That speak aught of the Dorcases. God bless the Dorcases.
FANNIE E. BOLTON.