She asked not any rest, nor any praise,
This meek and dauntless messenger of God;
Only the right, amid the many ways,
To seek and find the path her Master trod.
And so she found it. Humanly alone,
She cleared away the ages' dust and weeds,
Their moss and brambles, every stumbling-stone,
And all the tangled overgrowth of creeds.
She did not count the times her brave hands bled;
Nor heed the frown, the jeer, the serpent bite.
She cleared the path, and followed it, and led,
Holding aloft her clear and growing light.
Nor height, nor depth, nor darkness, made her stray;
She heard the Voice and knew from whence it came.
Nor any hand could snatch her light away;
Nor any storm could shatter its white flame.
And shall we pause when, from our prison walls,
We stand upon this path, and see, and hear?
Forward and upward! For the Voice still calls:
The light is shining, and the path is clear!
