a poem

There was no ordination,

No laying on of hands, 

No sober rites, no half-dimmed lights,

No pomp, no blaring bands; 

I merely found some work to do 

And did it—none too well, 'tis true.


And yet my work is sacred, 

And God looks down to see

The beads of sweat, nor will forget 

My store of energy;

I love to think my Master's eye

Will view good work before I die.


There was no ordination;

I was not set apart; 

In my crude task pray do not ask

Some hidden touch or art; 

Yet day by day I someway know 

That in this humble work—I grow!

                        ROSCOE GlLMORE STALL

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