Their hands of help outstretched to all who need,Whether a sinking soul adrift on shoalsOf doubt or sin, or some sad, broken heart;Or, as thou seest, by brimming water-gourd,Staying their steps to save a drowning bee.The world's old dragon writhing at their feetTugs vainly at their garments as they pass.With eyes intent upon their leader, Christ,They neither see nor heed the venomed thing.These kindle altar fires of love and faithUpon the household hearth, whose kindly glowAmid earth's damps of deep discouragementSends up perpetual incense of sweet thoughtsAnd gracious deeds of loving sacrificeTo Him who, sharing, consecrated life."Macareus was as he who gazed the firstThro' the crude microscope and felt his brainReel to bewilderment with all the lifePulsating in a rain-drop; down fell the wallsThat narrow sense had built about his thought,And left him naked to the blowing windsOf dizzy speculation, and wild doubt;The dark penumbra of himself, called GodFading away in the clear light of truth.So thought the saint: "If this be service thenThis simple, quiet filling of the lawOf sweet domestic love, what use the scourge,The sack-cloth and the penance? of awful pangsOf Nature half-subdued that strives and strives
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