Classic Poem

I CANNOT choose; I should have liked so much
To sit at Jesus' feet,—to feel the touch
Of his kind, gentle hand upon my head
While drinking in the gracious words he said.

And yet to serve him!—oh, divine employ,—
To minister and give the Master joy,
To bathe in coolest springs his weary feet,
And wait upon him while he sat at meat!

Worship or service,—which? Ah, that is best
To which he calls us, be it toil or rest,—
To labor for him in life's busy stir,
Or seek his feet a silent worshipper.

So let him choose for us: we are not strong
To make the choice; perhaps we should go wrong,
Mistaking zeal for service, sinful sloth
For loving worship,—and so fail of both.