HUMILITY

Father, I scarcely dare to pray, So clear I see, now it is done, That I have wasted half my day And left my work but just begun. So clear I see that things I thought Were right, or harmless, were a sin; So clear I see that I have sought Unconscious, selfish aims to win; So clear I see that I have hurt The souls I might have helped to save; That I have slothful been, inert, Deaf to the calls Thy leaders gave. In outskirts of thy kingdom vast, Father, the humblest spot give me; Set me the lowliest task thou hast; Let me, repentant, work for thee. —Helen Hunt Jackson.

Thy home is with the humble, Lord! The simplest are the best, Thy lodging is in childlike hearts: Thou makest there thy rest. Dear Comforter! Eternal Love! If thou wilt stay with me, Of lowly thoughts and simple ways I'll build a house for thee. Who made this beating heart of mine But Thou, my heavenly guest? Let no one have it, then, but thee, And let it be thy rest. —Lyra Catholica.

Before the eyes of men let duly shine thy light, But ever let thy life's best part be out of sight. —Richard Chenevix Trench.

The Man who Loved the Names of Things Went forth beneath the skies And named all things that he beheld, And people called him wise. An unseen presence walked with him Forever by his side, The wedded mistress of his soul— For Knowledge was his bride; She named the flowers, the weeds, the trees, And all the growths of all the seas. She told him all the rocks by name, The winds and whence they blew; She told him how the seas were formed, And how the mountains grew. She numbered all the stars for him; And all the rounded skies Were mapped and charted for the gaze Of his devouring eyes. Thus, taught by her, he taught the crowd; They praised—and he was very proud.

The Man who Loved the Soul of Things Went forth serene and glad, And mused upon the mighty world, And people called him mad. An unseen presence walked with him Forever by his side, The wedded mistress of his soul— For Wisdom was his bride. She showed him all this mighty frame, And bade him feel—but named no name. She stood with him upon the hills Ringed by the azure sky, And shamed his lowly thought with stars And bade it climb as high. And all the birds he could not name, The nameless stars that roll, The unnamed blossoms at his feet Talked with him soul to soul; He heard the Nameless Glory speak In silence—and was very meek. —Sam Walter Foss.

I wonder if ever a song was sung but the singer's heart sang sweeter! I wonder if ever a rhyme was rung but the thought surpassed the meter! I wonder if ever a sculptor wrought till the cold stone echoed his ardent thought! Or if ever the painter with light and shade the dream of his inmost heart portrayed!

I wonder if ever a rose was found and there might not be a fairer! Or if ever a glittering gem was ground and we dreamed not of a rarer! Ah! never on earth do we find the best; but it waits for us in the land of rest, And a perfect thing we shall never behold till we pass the portals of shining gold.

He that is down need fear no fall; He that is low, no pride; He that is humble ever shall Have God to be his guide. I am content with what I have, Little be it, or much; And, Lord, contentment still I crave, Because thou savest such. Fullness to such a burden is That go on pilgrimage; Here little, and hereafter bliss, Is best from age to age. —John Bunyan.

O thou unpolished shaft, why leave the quiver? O thou blunt axe, what forests canst thou hew? Untempered sword, canst thou the oppressed deliver? Go back to thine own maker's forge anew. Submit thyself to God for preparation, Seek not to teach thy Master and thy Lord; Call it not zeal; it is a base temptation. Satan is pleased when man dictates to God. Down with thy pride! with holy vengeance trample On each self-flattering fancy that appears; Did not the Lord himself, for our example, Lie hid in Nazareth for thirty years?

God of our fathers, known of old— Lord of our far-flung battle-line— Beneath whose awful hand we hold Dominion over palm and pine— Lord God of hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget—lest we forget. The tumult and the shouting dies— The Captains and the Kings depart— Still stands thine ancient sacrifice, An humble and a contrite heart. Lord God of hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget—lest we forget. Far-called our navies melt away— On dune and headland sinks the fire— Lo, all our pomp of yesterday Is one with Nineveh and Tyre. Judge of the nations, spare us yet, Lest we forget—lest we forget. If, drunk with sight of power, we loose Wild tongues that have not thee in awe— Such boastings as the Gentiles use, Or lesser breeds without the Law— Lord God of hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget—lest we forget. For heathen heart that puts her trust In reeking tube and iron shard— All valiant dust that builds on dust, And guarding calls not Thee to guard. For frantic boast and foolish word, Thy mercy on thy people, Lord. —Rudyard Kipling.

In humbleness, O Lord, I ask That thou bestow on me The will and strength to do some task For growth of love for thee; Some task, not of my chosen will— For wisdom is not mine— But let my frailsome life fulfill Some perfect thought of thine.

I cannot think but God must know About the thing I long for so; I know he is so good, so kind, I cannot think but he will find Some way to help, some way to show Me to the thing I long for so. I stretch my hand; it lies so near, It looks so sweet, it looks so dear, "Dear Lord," I pray, "O let me know If it is wrong to want it so!" He only smiles, he does not speak; My heart grows weaker and more weak With looking at the thing so dear, Which lies so far, and yet so near. Now, Lord, I leave at thy loved feet This thing which looks so near, so sweet; I will not seek, I will not long; I almost fear I have been wrong; I'll go, and work the harder, Lord, And wait, till by some loud, clear word Thou callest me to thy loved feet To take this thing so dear, so sweet. —Saxe Holm.

Others shall sing the song, Others shall right the wrong, Finish what I begin, And all I fail of win. What matter, I or they, Mine or another's day, So the right word be said, And life the sweeter made? Ring, bells in unreared steeples, The joy of unborn peoples! Sound, trumpets far-off blown, Your triumph is my own. —John Greenleaf Whittier.

Pitch thy behaviour low, thy projects high; So shalt thou humble and magnanimous be; Sink not in spirit; who aimeth at the sky Shoots higher much than he that means a tree. A grain of glory mixed with humbleness Cures both a fever and lethargickness. —George Herbert.

Father, in thy mysterious presence kneeling, Fain would our souls feel all thy kindling love; For we are weak and need some deep revealing Of trust, and strength, and calmness from above. Lord, we have wandered far through doubt and sorrow, And thou hast made each step an onward one; And we will ever trust each unknown morrow— Thou wilt sustain us till its work is done. In the heart's depths a peace serene and holy Abides; and when pain seems to have its will, Or we despair, O may that peace rise slowly Stronger than agony, and we be still! Now, Father, now, in thy dear presence kneeling, Our spirits yearn to feel thy kindling love; Now make us strong, we need thy deep revealing, Of trust, and strength, and calmness from above. —Samuel Johnson.

Half feeling our own weakness, We place our hands in Thine— Knowing but half our darkness We ask for light divine. Then, when Thy strong arm holds us, Our weakness most we feel, And thy love and light around us Our darkness must reveal. Too oft, when faithless doubtings Around our spirits press, We cry, "Can hands so feeble Grasp such almightiness?" While thus we doubt and tremble Our hold still looser grows; While on our darkness gazing Vainly thy radiance glows. Oh, cheer us with Thy brightness, And guide us by thy hand, In thy light teach us light to see, In thy strength strong to stand. Then though our hands be feeble, If they but touch thine arm, Thy light and power shall lead us, And keep us strong and calm.

I would not ask Thee that my days Should flow quite smoothly on and on, Lest I should learn to love the world Too well, ere all my time was done. I would not ask Thee that my work Should never bring me pain nor fear; Lest I should learn to work alone, And never wish thy presence near. I would not ask Thee that my friends Should always kind and constant be; Lest I should learn to lay my faith In them alone, and not in thee. But I would ask a humble heart, A changeless will to work and wake, A firm faith in Thy providence, The rest—'tis thine to give or take. —Alfred Norris.

Knowledge and wisdom, far from being one, Have ofttimes no connection. Knowledge dwells In heads replete with thoughts of other men; Wisdom in minds attentive to their own. Knowledge, a rude, unprofitable mass, The mere material with which Wisdom builds, Till smoothed, and squared, and fitted to its place, Does but encumber whom it seems to enrich. Knowledge is proud that he has learned so much, Wisdom is humble that he knows no more. —William Cowper.

Humble we must be if to heaven we go; High is the roof there; but the gate is low. —Robert Herrick.

It is not mine to run, with eager feet, Along life's crowded ways, my Lord to meet. It is not mine to pour the oil and wine Or bring the purple robe and linen fine. It is not mine to break at his dear feet The alabaster box of ointment sweet. It is not mine to bear his heavy cross, Or suffer, for his sake, all pain and loss. It is not mine to walk through valleys dim, Or climb far mountain heights alone with him. He hath no need of me in grand affairs, Where fields are lost or crowns won unawares. Yet, Master, if I may make one pale flower Bloom brighter, for thy sake, though one short hour; If I in harvest fields where strong ones reap, May bind one golden sheaf for love to keep; May speak one quiet word when all is still, Helping some fainting heart to bear thy will; Or sing some high, clear song on which may soar Some glad soul heavenward, I ask no more. —Julia Caroline Ripley Dorr.

Christ wants the best. He in the far-off ages Once claimed the firstling of the flock, the finest of the wheat; And still he asks his own with gentlest pleading To lay their highest hopes and brightest talents at his feet. He'll not forget the feeblest service, humblest love; He only asks that of our stores we give to him the best we have.

My sins and follies, Lord, by thee From others hidden are, That such good words are spoke of me As now and then I hear; For sure if others know me such, Such as myself I know, I should have been dispraised as much As I am praisèd now. The praise, therefore, which I have heard, Delights not so my mind, As those things make my heart afeard Which in myself I find; And I had rather to be blamed, So I were blameless made, Than for much virtue to be famed When I no virtues had. Though slanders to an innocent Sometimes do bitter grow, Their bitterness procures content, If clear himself he know. And when a virtuous man hath erred If praised himself he hear, It makes him grieve and more afeard Than if he slandered were. Lord, therefore make my heart upright, Whate'er my deeds do seem; And righteous rather in thy sight, Than in the world's esteem. And if aught good appears to be In any act of mine, Let thankfulness be found in me, And all the praise be thine. —George Wither (1588-1667).

One part, one little part, we dimly scan, Through the dark medium of life's feverish dream; Yet dare arraign the whole stupendous plan, If but that little part incongruous seem. Nor is that part, perhaps, what mortals deem, Oft from apparent ill our blessings rise. O then renounce that impious self-esteem That aims to trace the secrets of the skies; For thou art but of dust, be humble and be wise. —James Beattie.

O humble me! I cannot bide the joy That in my Saviour's presence ever flows; May I be lowly, lest it may destroy The peace his childlike spirit ever knows. I would not speak thy word, but by thee stand While thou dost to thine erring children speak; O help me but to keep his own command, And in my strength to feel me ever weak; Then in thy presence shall I humbly stay, Nor lose the life of love he came to give; And find at last the life, the truth, the way To where with him thy blessed servants live; And walk forever in the path of truth— A servant, yet a son; a sire and yet a youth. —Jones Very.

This is the highest learning, The hardest and the best— From self to keep still turning, And honor all the rest. If one should break the letter, Yea, spirit of command, Think not that thou art better; Thou may'st not always stand! We all are weak—but weaker Hold no one than thou art; Then, as thou growest meeker, Higher will go thy heart. —George Macdonald.

In proud humility a pious man went through the field; The ears of corn were bowing in the wind, as if they kneeled; He struck them on the head, and modestly began to say, "Unto the Lord, not unto me, such honors should you pay."

—From the Persian.

Moses, the patriot fierce, became The meekest man on earth, To show us how love's quickening flame Can give our souls new birth. Moses, the man of meekest heart, Lost Canaan by self-will, To show, where grace has done its part, How sin defiles us still. Thou who hast taught me in thy fear, Yet seest me frail at best, Oh, grant me loss with Moses here, To gain his future rest. —John Henry Newman.

Let praise devote thy work, and skill employ Thy whole mind, and thy heart be lost in joy. Well-doing bringeth pride; this constant thought Humility, that thy best done is naught. Man doeth nothing well, be it great or small, Save to praise God; but that hath savèd all. For God requires no more than thou hast done, And takes thy work to bless it for his own. —Robert Bridges.

"A commonplace life," we say, and we sigh; But why should we sigh as we say? The commonplace sun in the commonplace sky Makes up the commonplace day. The moon and the stars are commonplace things, And the flower that blooms and the bird that sings, But dark were the world and sad our lot If the flowers failed and the sun shone not; And God, who studies each separate soul Out of commonplace lives makes his beautiful whole.

Humility, that low, sweet root From which all heavenly virtues shoot. —Thomas Moore.

Up and away, like the dew of the morning That soars from the earth to its home in the sun, So let me steal away, gently and lovingly, Only remembered by what I have done.

My name, and my place, and my tomb all forgotten, The brief race of time well and patiently run, So let me pass away, peacefully, silently, Only remembered by what I have done.

Gladly away from this toil would I hasten, Up to the crown that for me has been won; Unthought of by man in rewards or in praises; Only remembered by what I have done.

Up and away, like the odors of sunset, That sweeten the twilight as evening comes on, So be my life—a thing felt but not noticed,— And I but remembered by what I have done.

Yes, like the fragrance that wanders in freshness When the flowers that it came from are closed up and gone. So would I be to this world's weary dwellers Only remembered by what I have done.

I need not be missed, if my life has been bearing (As its summer and autumn move silently on) The bloom, and the fruit, and the seed of its season; I shall still be remembered by what I have done.

Needs there the praise of the love-written record, The name and the epitaph graved on the stone? The things we have lived for—let them be our story— We ourselves but remembered by what we have done.

I need not be missed if another succeed me, To reap down the fields which in spring I have sown; He who plowed and who sowed is not missed by the reaper, He is only remembered by what he has done.

Not myself, but the truth that in life I have spoken, Not myself, but the seed that in life I have sown, Shall pass on to ages—all about me forgotten, Save the truth I have spoken, the things I have done.

So let my living be, so be my dying; So let my name lie, unblazoned, unknown; Unpraised and unmissed, I shall still be remembered; Yes, but remembered for what I have done.

—Horatius Bonar.

O I could go through all life's troubles singing, Turning earth's night to day, If self were not so fast around me clinging, To all I do or say. O Lord! that I could waste my life for others, With no ends of my own, That I could pour myself into my brothers And live for them alone! Such was the life thou livedst; self-abjuring, Thine own pains never easing, Our burdens bearing, our just doom enduring; A life without self-pleasing. —Frederick William Faber.

The time for toil is past, and night has come— The last and saddest of the harvest eves; Worn out with labor, long and wearisome, Drooping and faint, the reapers hasten home, Each laden with his sheaves. Last of the laborers, thy feet I gain, Lord of the harvest! and my spirit grieves That I am burdened not so much with grain As with a heaviness of heart and brain; Master, behold my sheaves. Few, light, and worthless—yet their trifling weight Through all my frame a weary aching leaves; For long I struggled with my hapless fate, And stayed and toiled till it was dark and late— Yet these are all my sheaves. Full well I know I have more tares than wheat, Brambles and flowers, dry stalks and withered leaves; Wherefore I blush and weep as at thy feet I kneel down reverently and repeat, "Master, behold my sheaves!" I know these blossoms clustering heavily, With evening dew upon their folded leaves, Can claim no value or utility— Therefore shall fragrancy and beauty be The glory of my sheaves. So do I gather strength and hope anew; For well I know thy patient love perceives Not what I did, but what I strove to do, And though the full ripe ears be sadly few Thou wilt accept my sheaves. —Elizabeth Akers.

I pray not that Men tremble at My power of place, And lordly sway; I only pray for simple grace To look my neighbor in the face Full honestly from day to day. —James Whitcomb Riley.

If thou art blest, Then let the sunshine of thy gladness rest On the dark edges of each cloud that lies Black in thy brother's skies. If thou art sad, Still be in thy brother's gladness glad. —Hamilton.

Flower in the crannied wall, I pluck you out of the crannies, I hold you here, root and all, in my hand, Little flower—but if I could understand What you are, root and all, and all in all, I should know what God and man is. —Alfred Tennyson.

Praise not thy work, but let thy work praise thee; For deeds, not words, make each man's memory stable. If what thou dost is good, its good all men will see; Musk by its smell is known, not by its label.

When thou art fain to trace a map of thine own heart, An undiscovered land set down the largest part. —Richard Chenevix Trench.

Patient, resigned and humble wills Impregnably resist all ills. —Thomas Ken.

He is one to whom Long patience hath such mild composure given, That patience now doth seem a thing of which He hath no need. —William Wordsworth.

Be not too ready to condemn The wrong thy brothers may have done: Ere ye too harshly censure them For human faults, ask, "Have I none?" —Eliza Cook.

Search thine own heart. What paineth thee In others in thyself may be; All dust is frail, all flesh is weak; Be thou the true man thou dost seek. —John Greenleaf Whittier.

Through wish, resolve, and act, our will Is moved by undreamed forces still; And no man measures in advance His strength with untried circumstance. —John Greenleaf Whittier.

Labor with what zeal we will, Something still remains undone. Something uncompleted still Waits the rising of the sun. —Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

In the deed that no man knoweth, Where no praiseful trumpet bloweth, Where he may not reap who soweth, There, Lord, let my heart serve thee.

O wad some power the giftie gie us To see oursels as ithers see us! It wad frae mony a blunder free us, An' foolish notion. —Robert Burns.