SERVANTS.


They are but servants, say the words of scorning,
As though they meant to say, we're finer clay,
Yet, all the universe holds solemn warning,
Against this pride in creatures of a day

In fashion's last new folly, flaunting slowly,
With white plumes tossing on the Sabbath air
They pass with scornful words a sister lowly.
Do scornful lips know anything of prayer?

Alas! poor human nature's inconsistence,
Up to God's house we go, that we be fed;
And there, as beggars begging for assistance,
Say "Give us, Lord, this day our daily bread."

Without a price, the priceless blessings buying
Which are laid up for us, with Christ in God;
To Him we come as little children crying,
That He may guide us by His staff and rod,

We leave His presence on the Sabbath morning,
Feeling forgiven, feeling satisfied;
Then pass our lowlier sisters full of scorning
Ruffling ourselves as those that dwell in pride.