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