Each word as distinctly enunciated as though the singer was reciting them. On, through the description of mental and physical powers, until she reached the words:
"Take my voice, and let me sing,
Always, only for my King."
She was singing from sheet music, and the arrangement was such that the word "voice" rolled up into the higher notes, strong and pure, as though the singer would reach up, even to the throne, with the offering.
"Take my voice, and—"
Suddenly the singer faltered, the voice ceased. The organ, which had been keeping only a modest undertone of accompaniment, hurried into the melody, the player striking the chords with firm hand, as though to encourage the singer, but in vain. She only looked pleadingly at the leader and shook her head. And the minister who had been listening with closed eyes, and a heart attuned to the words wafted to him, caught the pleading look, and, rising, lifted his hands in benediction.
Following hard on the "amen" came questions. Anxious friends had hurried to the choir gallery. "What is it?" "Were you faint?" "Get her a glass of water." "Where's a fan?" "Do you feel sick?"
She turned from them toward the leader: "Mr. Smith, I am very sorry, but, indeed, I could not sing it; those words are awful!"
"Words!" he said, in high indignation. "Is it possible you stopped for them? I told you they were mere doggerel. It was the marvelous tune, and your voice fits it. What are words?"
She shivered as she answered him: "Words are awful, Mr. Smith—those words are. I could not speak them. Think of me calling God to witness that I give Him my voice, to sing only for Him, when I never sang a line for Him in my life!
"'Always, only for my King!'