Perhaps when our Father looks lovingly down
On our wandering footsteps in country and town,
Our burdens, our hindrances all, He can see,
And read in His wisdom more surely than we.
Far more than when kneeling by altar or crypt,
Our deeds make the record, in broad, cursive script.
Thank God that the Reader and Father are one,
That the poor, blotted copy-book, hardly begun,
Is read by Him only who wrote on the sand,
And the torn covers folded at last by His hand.