And only the Lord can draw forth the arrows
Left carelessly, cruelly rankling there.
Whatever the fever, his touch can heal it;
Whatever the tempest, his voice can still.
There is only a rest as we seek his pleasure,
There is only a rest as we choose his will.
And some day, after life's fitful fever,
I think we shall say, in the home on high,
"If the hands that he touched but did his bidding,
How little it matters what else went by!"