[Written for the Sentinel]


No palm of worldly glory, Lord,
No crown of earthly gain
Allures, if I may speak the word
That stills the cry of pain.

My dearest dreams are trifles, Lord,
With which I gladly part,
But let me know the tender touch
That frees the grieving heart.

The store of all earth's treasure house
Is meaningless to me,
If I may lift the sinning up,
And guide the lost to Thee.

To labor in Thy vineyard, Lord,
To do Thy will divine,
To help a brother in his need,
Is more than meat and wine.

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November 26, 1927

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