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SCORN not the slightest word
or deed,
Nor deem it void of power;
There's fruit in each wind-wafted seed,
Waiting its natal hour.
A whisper'd word may touch the heart,
And call it back to life;
A look of love bid sin depart,
And still unholy strife.
No act falls fruitless; none can tell
How vast its power may he,
Nor what results unfolded dwell
Within it silently.
Work, and despair not: give thy mite,
Nor care how small it be;
God is with all who serve the right,
The holy, true, and free. |
