END AND MEANS.
WE spend our strength in labor day by day,
We find new strength replacing old alway;
And still we cheat ourselves, and still we say:
“No man would work except to win some prize;
We work to turn our hopes to certainties,—
For gold, or gear, or favor in men’s eyes.”
And all the while the goal toward which we strain—
Up hill and down, in sunshine and in rain,
Heedless of toil, if so we may attain—
Is but a lure, a heavenly-set decoy
To exercised endeavor, full employ
Of every power, which is man’s highest joy.
And work becomes the end, reward the means,
To woo us from our idleness and dreams;
So, Lord, with such poor service as we do,
Thy full salvation is our prize in view,
For which we long, and which we press unto.
Like a great star on which we fix our eyes,
It dazzles from the high, blue distances,
And seems to beckon and to say, “Arise!”
And we arise and follow the hard way,
Winning a little nearer day by day,
Our hearts going faster than our footsteps may;
And never guess the secret sweet device
Which lures us on and upward to the skies,
And makes each toil its own reward and prize.
To give our little selves to thee, to blend
Our weakness with thy strength, O Lord our Friend,
This is life’s truest privilege and end.