El-í-she-ba, God's worshiper,
Whose eyes are starlit wells
Filled from the depths with constancy,—
Blue violets of the dells,—
With strength of tone and faithfulness
Their look a sweetness tells.
Thou standest at the gates of night
Where pass the toilers by;
Some have wrought well, and happy go;
Some halt in step, and sigh;
Some trail in dust a broken wing—
A multitude goes by.
Those needy, willing, contrite, meek,
Thou touchest with thy song;
The glory of God's knowledge—light—
Thy face reflecteth strong.
The healing balm flows unawares
The human line along.
