She was rich, though few would think it; for God gave her grace to choose, Not the world's deceitful riches, but the wealth one cannot lose. There are many heap up treasure, but it is not every one Who will take his treasure with him when his earthly life is done.
Was she beautiful? I know not. She had eyes of peaceful light, And her face looked sweet and blooming in its frame of linen white. To the sick and heavy-hearted she was pleasant to behold, And she seemed a heavenly vision to the feeble and the old. She was happy when she wandered up the wandering mountain road, Bearing food and warmth and blessing to some desolate abode, Though the ice-cold winds were blowing and her woman's strength was tried; For she knew who walked there with her, in her heart and by her side. She was happy--oh, so happy!--in her little whitewashed cell Looking out among the branches, where they gave her leave to dwell In her scanty hours of leisure; for there, looking from the wall, Were the dear and holy faces that she loved the best of all.
'T was an old and faded picture, poorly painted at the best, Of Our Lord, the Holy Infant, in His Mother's arms at rest. But her faith and loving fancy had a glory to it lent, And the faces that she saw there were not what the artist meant And the wooden shelf before it she would often-times adorn With the buttercup and bluebell, and the wild rose from the thorn, Which she gathered, when returning, while the morning dew was bright, From some home, remote and lonely, where she watched the sick by night. So her life was full of sunshine, for in toiling for the Lord She had found the hidden sweetness that in common things lies stored: He has strewn the earth with flowers, and each eye their brightness sees; But He filled their cups with honey, for His humble working bees.
But there came a time--poor sister!--when her rosy cheek grew pale, And her eyes, with all their sunlight, seemed to smile as through a veil; And her step was weak and heavy, as she trod the steep ascent, Where through weeks of wintry weather to her loving work she went. 'T was a foot-path, lone and narrow, winding up among the trees, And 't was hard to trace in winter, when the slippery ground would freeze, And the snow fall thick above it, hiding every sign and mark; But she went that way so often she could climb it in the dark! 'T was to nurse a poor young mother, by fierce malady assailed, That she made the daily journey, and she never once had failed. Now the short sharp days were over, and the spring had just begun; Every morn the light came sooner, and more strength was in the sun.