Forgiveness
It is no little thing to askThat one forgive;It is, in truth, no simple taskTo toil and live;But life presents no charm for himWho merely moves to shun the illsBeneath its crumbling archways dimNor looks for dawn along the hills.
As to the crushed and withered roseIt perfumes cling,So life lacks love unless it showsIn suffering.Love has no meed unless it beThe kind that holds whenever tried,That love that bides unselfishlyUntil the future shall decide.
The broken heart is watched of God-He notes it tearsWho brings the blossom from the sodAnd fills the years.Divinity is in that soulThat careth though it oft reproves,For the Creator of us allLoves and forgives, forgives and loves.