We walk on starry fields of white And do not see the daisies, For blessings common in our sight We rarely offer praises. We sigh for some supreme delight To crown our lives with splendour, And quite ignore our daily store Of pleasures sweet and tender.
Our cares are bold and push their way Upon our thought and feeling; They hang about us all the day, Our time from pleasure stealing. So unobtrusive many a joy We pass by and forget it, But worry strives to own our lives, And conquers if we let it.
There’s not a day in all the year But holds some hidden pleasure, And, looking back, joys oft appear To brim the past’s wide measure. But blessings are like friends, I hold, Who love and labour near us. We ought to raise our notes of praise While living hearts can hear us.
Full many a blessing wears the guise Of worry or of trouble; Far-seeing is the soul, and wise, Who knows the mask is double. But he who has the faith and strength To thank his God for sorrow Has found a joy without alloy To gladden every morrow.
We ought to make the moments notes Of happy, glad Thanksgiving; The hours and days a silent phrase Of music we are living. And so the theme should swell and grow As weeks and months pass o’er us, And rise sublime at this good time, A grand Thanksgiving chorus.
I see the tall church steeples— They reach so far, so far; But the eyes of my heart see the world’s great mart Where the starving people are.
I hear the church bells ringing Their chimes on the morning air; But my soul’s sad ear is hurt to hear The poor man’s cry of despair.
Thicker and thicker the churches, Nearer and nearer the sky— But alack for their creeds while the poor man’s needs Grow deeper as years roll by!
Hadst thou a ship, in whose vast hold lay stored The priceless riches of all climes and lands, Say, wouldst thou let it float upon the seas Unpiloted, of fickle winds the sport, And of wild waves and hidden rocks the prey?
Thine is that ship; and in its depths concealed Lies all the wealth of this vast universe— Yea, lies some part of God’s omnipotence, The legacy divine of every soul. Thy will, O man, thy will is that great ship, And yet behold it drifting here and there— One moment lying motionless in port, Then on high seas by sudden impulse flung, Then drying on the sands, and yet again Sent forth on idle quests to no-man’s land To carry nothing and to nothing bring; Till, worn and fretted by the aimless strife And buffeted by vacillating winds, It founders on a rock, or springs a leak, With all its unused treasures in the hold.