Classic Poem

I

Made for a throne, to give a queen's commands,
That glad hearts might obey,
These beautiful and love-kissed, tender hands
Yet toil along life's way.

II

Frail as a lily, bowed upon its stem,
With the spring rains impearled,
Surely the kind God did not fashion them
To battle with a world!

III

Made for the sweetest kiss that love bestows —
Not for a cruel strife;
In life's sweet gardens they should reap the rose —
Not the red thorns of life!

IV

Dear hands of Duty, in a life of loss
Fighting against despair
Where a cold world would nail them to a cross
And leave them bleeding there.

V

They shiver in the wintry cold; they know
Never the kiss of Rest.
Would that the world its pity would bestow
And warm them at Love's breast!

VI

Dear hands! that make each sacrifice complete
Of Love that dares so much!
Some child's brow, bending for a blessing sweet,
Is aching for your touch!

VII

Some home, in whose dim halls no lovelight shines,
Would at your will grow bright;
Yearning for you to trim the blossoming vines
Loveward, toward the light!

VIII

Yet, toiling ever, in bleak, barren ways —
Bound as with iron bands,
Take from a singer this poor meed of praise,
Dear, faithful, serving hands!

IX

Holy with service! On this flowerless sod
Not vainly you have striven:
Toiling for Love, dear hands! you toil for God
And so, take hold on heaven!