Poems (Linn)/The Organist
THE ORGANIST.
THE organist sits at the key-board, His hands glide to and fro,Blindly he strikes the pedals Hidden in gloom below;Silent the keys he touches; But far above the airBreathes through the pipes in music, A hymn of praise or prayer.
So in this life men labor In darkness, doubt and pain;Dumb are the keys before them, But far above, a strainOf sweet and holy music May break upon the ear,To lift some soul from sorrow, To ease some heart of fear.
God only asks that we labor On life's key-board day by day;We shrink at many a discord, Discouraged, cease to pray; But sure as we work in earnest, With the duties that lie below,Though silent the keys we finger, Somewhere the song will flow.