I KNOW that a bird with a broken wing
Can never fly as high again,
Yet I've heard that bird on its cage perch sing
A melting song with a sweet refrain.
It started a tear in my eye as I lay,
Lay and listened the evening long,
To the pipe and thrill of the wounded jay,
As it filled the air with its melting song.
Then I tried to link the wing with the song,
If one with the other had aught to do,
And it didn't keep me thinking long,
Till I found this fact to be grandly true,
That closely linked on life's rough way
Are the broken wing and the sweetest song,
And we haven't to wait so very long,
Till the latest minstrel will surely sing.
There are compensations for every wrong,
And a balm for every broken wing,
And we haven't to wait so very long
Till the wounded bird begins to sing.
There are blessings that balance every ill,
That cripples, and wounds, and mars, and blights,
There's a beautiful mission for me to fill,
Altho it may not be on the heights
With the strong and the gifted crowned with power;
Yet down in the valley beneath their feet,
There are flowers to be tended every hour,
There are things to be done to make me meet
For the Master's use; if I can not fly with my
broken wing,
And the heights for me are no more, no more,
Then down in the valley I'll sit and sing
With the wounded birds that have ceased to soar.
With the wounded birds to learn their song,
And sit and listen to each as it sings,
With the wounded birds the whole day long,
As they trill and sing with their broken wings.
