The Trust
Because I’ve eighty years and odd,
And darkling is my day,
I now prepare to meet my God,
And for forgiveness pray.
Not for salvation is my plea,
Nor Heaven hope,—just rest:
Begging: “Dear Father, pardon me,
I did not do my best.
”I did not measure with the Just
To serve my fellow men;
But unto levity and lust
I loaned my precious pen.
I sorrow for the sacred touch,
And though I toiled with zest,
Dear God, have mercy, in—as—much
I did not do my best.
“I bless You for the gift you gave
That brought me golden joy;
Yet here beside the gentle grave
I grieve for its employ.
Have pity, Lord,—so well I know
I failed you in the test,
And my last thought is one of woe:
I did not do my best.”
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