Less than the dust, beneath thy chariot wheel,
Less than the rust, that never stained thy sword,
Less than the trust thou hast in me, O Lord,
Even less than these!
Less than the rust, that never stained thy sword,
Less than the trust thou hast in me, O Lord,
Even less than these!
Less than the weed, that grows beside thy door,
Less than the speed of hours spent far from thee,
Less than the need thou hast in life of me,
Even less am I.
Less than the speed of hours spent far from thee,
Less than the need thou hast in life of me,
Even less am I.
Webb sang in rather an uncertain tenor voice. His tones often stuck in his throat. He did not know very well how to control them, Mary noted. The others sat up very stiffly while he sang, and when he had concluded, Hester remarked, Delightful!
This sentiment was feebly echoed by her guests.
Sing another, Hester suggested. Can you hear, mama?
Perfectly.
Webb pawed about among his music again and eventually dragged out another song.
All things come home at eventide,
Like birds that weary of their roaming,
And I would hasten to thy side,
Homing.
Like birds that weary of their roaming,
And I would hasten to thy side,
Homing.
Oh, dearest I have wandered far
From daybreak to the twilight gloaming;
I come home with the evening star,
Homing.
From daybreak to the twilight gloaming;
I come home with the evening star,
Homing.
