Poem October 30, 1902 Issue

"O Ye of Little Faith"

CHRISTIAN BURKE

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A sower sowed his seed, with doubts and fears;
"I dare not hope," he said, "for fruitful ears;
Poor hath the harvest been in other years."
Yet ere the August moon had waxen old
Fair stood his fields, a waving sea of gold;
He reaped a thousandfold!

In a dark place one dropped a kindly word;
"So weak my voice," he sighed, "perchance none heard;
Or, if they did, no answering impulse stirred,"
Yet in an hour his fortunes were at stake,
One put a life in peril for his sake,
Because that word he spake!

"Little I have to give, O Lord," one cried,
"A wayward heart that oft hath thee denied;
Couldst thou with such a gift be satisfied?"
Yet when the soul had ceased its mournful plaint,
God took the love that seemed so poor and faint
And from it made a saint!

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