I shall not fear to meet my Master’s gaze,
Nor, like an idling child, His Searching Presence shun,
E’en though no herald trumpet-voice pronounce my praise,
And earth-won hero garlands wear I none.
E’en though the best the world shall know of me,
When mouldering clay is laid with kindred clay again,
Is but a stone on which the stars shine carelessly
Smooth-polished by the fingers of the rain:
I shall not fear to stand before His Face
And answer for the schemes I reared on shifting sand,