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THE THREAD OF LIFE.
Where bees are found, with honey for the bees Where sounds are music, and where silencesAre music of an unlike fashioning.Then gaze I at the merrymaking crew, And smile a moment and a moment sighThinking: Why can I not rejoice with you? But soon I put the foolish fancy by:I am not what I have nor what I do; But what I was I am, I am even I.
3.
Therefore myself is that one only thing I hold to use or waste, to keep or give; My sole possession every day I live,And still mine own despite Time's winnowing.Ever mine own, while moons and seasons bring From crudeness ripeness mellow and sanative; Ever mine own, till Death shall ply his sieve;And still mine own, when saints break grave and sing.And this myself as king unto my King I give, to Him Who gave Himself for me;Who gives Himself to me, and bids me sing A sweet new song of His redeemed set free;He bids me sing: O death, where is thy sting? And sing: O grave, where is thy victory?
