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.
A tenderness and strength divine
Enfolds each weary one.
God owns thy service; and His grace
Shines out, a very sun,
In rays of light and warmth and life,
When His will has been done.
Thy voice hath notes of sweetest strain,
Christ's love the melody,
Melting despair to tears that flow
At touch of sympathy,
The healing touch of perfect Love,
And blind eyes ope and see.
El-í-she-ba, God's worshiper,
How beautiful thy feet!
Faithful o'er thorny, rugged ways,
And through the meadows sweet;
Thy face reflecting radiance,
Thy song with strength replete.
