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| O! LEARN that it is only by the lowly | |
| The paths of peace are trod; | |
| If thou would’st keep thy garments white and holy, | |
| Walk humbly with thy God. | |
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| The man with earthly wisdom high uplifted | 5 |
| Is in God’s sight a fool; | |
| But he in heavenly truth most deeply gifted | |
| Sits lowest in Christ’s school. | |
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| The lowly spirit God hath consecrated | |
| As His abiding rest; | 10 |
| And angels by some patriarch’s tent have waited, | |
| When kings had no such guest. | |
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| The dew that never wets the flinty mountain, | |
| Falls in the valley free; | |
| Bright verdure fringes the small desert-fountain, | 15 |
| But barren sand the sea. | |
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| Not in the stately oak the fragrance dwelleth | |
| Which charms the general wood, | |
| But in the violet low, whose sweetness telleth | |
| Its unseen neighbourhood. | 20 |
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| The censer swung by the proud hand of merit | |
| Fumes with a fire abhorred; | |
| But Faith’s two mites, dropped covertly, inherit | |
| A blessing from the Lord. | |
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| Round lowliness a gentle radiance hovers, | 25 |
| A sweet unconscious grace; | |
| Which, even in shrinking, evermore discovers | |
| The brightness on its face. | |
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| Where God abides, Contentment is and Honour, | |
| Such guerdon Meekness knows; | 30 |
| His peace within her, and His smile upon her, | |
| Her saintly way she goes. | |
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| Through the straight gate of life she passes stooping, | |
| With sandals on her feet; | |
| And pure-eyed Graces, hand in hand come trooping, | 35 |
| Their sister fair to greet. | |
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| The angels bend their eyes upon her goings, | |
| And guard her from annoy; | |
| Heaven fills her heart with silent overflowings | |
| Of its perennial joy. | 40 |
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| The Saviour loves her, for she wears the vesture | |
| With which He walked on Earth; | |
| And through her child-like glance, and step, and gesture, | |
| He knows her heavenly birth. | |
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| He now beholds this seal of glory graven | 45 |
| On all whom He redeems; | |
| And in His own bright City, crystal-paven, | |
| On every brow it gleams. | |
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| The white-robed saints, the throne-steps singing under, | |
| Their state all meekly wear; | 50 |
| Their praise wells up from hidden springs of wonder | |
| That grace has brought them there. | |
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