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Show . Failure. (By Rosa Mulholland.) The Lord who fashioned my hands for working. Set me a task, and it is not done; I tried and tried since the early morning. morn-ing. And now to westward singeth the sun. Noble the task that was kindly given To one so little and weak as I Somehow my strength could never grasp it. Never, as days and years went by. Others around me cheerfully tolling, Showed me their work as they passed away; Filled with their hands to overflowing. Proud were their hearts, and glad and gay. Laden with harvest spoils then entered en-tered In at the golden gate of their rest: Laid their sheaves at the feet of the Master. Found their places among the blest. Happy be they who strove to help me, Failing ever in spite of their aid; Fain would their love have borne me onward, But I was unready, and sore af raicL Now my task will never be finished. And when the Master calleth my name The Voice will find me still at my labor. la-bor. Weeping beside it in very shame. With empty hand3 I. shall rise to meet Him, And when He looks for the fruits of years. Nothing have I to lay before Him. But broken efforts and bitter tears. Yet when He calls I fain would hasten Mine eyes are dim and their light is gone; And I am as weary as though I carried car-ried A burden of beautiful work well done. I will fold my empty hands on my bosom, Meekly thus in the shape ; of His Cross: And-the Lord who made them frail and feeble Maybe will pity their strife and loss. |