Whereon the waves are trailing albs of pointed lace,
If on my way I’ve lent the helping hand
To fellow-pilgrims toiling at my side,
Who, worn and weary, faint and fall beside the road,
If here betimes the blinding, scalding tear I’ve dried,
Or soothed a heart, or eased a galling load,
For He shall say “Your name in dust is hid,
No thought or word has earned you immortality;
Immortal only are the kindly things you did—
Amen I say, you did them unto me.”