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" God be thanked, for this vision He gives us, of sweetness and glory."
Then I knew that the work was not mine, that in truth 'twas well done.
Then, the sorrow of life made my righteousness softer, more tender ;
I grew careless of preaching, cared only for healing men's souls ;
And I painted the flowers by the wayside, and knelt as I painted ;
And men said, " He is growing, this painter, — is nearing the great."
As the racer is cheered in his strife by a voice that he knows not,
So a friend, who was only a voice to me, led me till now :
But they say he is dead ; and they praise me, you say, little Gracie ?
Do they praise him, I wonder, who made me — the last of my friends ?
Yes, the work is completed, I think, for the worker is worn.