Classic Poem

Our path aloft is slippery and steep,
The smooth brow of a sea-washed precipice;
And often, in an hour's unguarded sleep,
We fall from heights of years' hard toil the price.

Sorrows are thorns and stunted plants, that spring
From out the rock their rugged roots have riven,
Building for thee, if to their stems thou cling,
A Jacob's Ladder mounting up to heaven.

Lay hold of them, though hands and feet be torn;
For couldst thou see aright, each sharp-toothed thorn
Would seem an angel's hand along the road
To drag thee in thine own despite to God.