Some other, Lord, for I am slow of speech;
Another's thought my brother's need must reach.
Perchance he would not heed me; would not rise
Were mine the hand that pointed to the skies.
And then a voice, most still and sweet and low,
"I called for thee. What if thy speech be slow?
Had I not known thou couldst do this for me,
I had not asked thee. Lo, I go with thee."
But, Lord, so many have the larger gift
And fleeter foot to run the race; more swift
To find and bring thee thine again,
To grapple with the world's sore need and pain.
"Nothing by any means shall hurt thee, child,
For I command the waves of error wild;
So, if they threaten, what is that to thee?
Let not thy heart be troubled. Follow me."
