By S. B.

OH, FATHER, I would pray for him—
My brother man who tries and fails
And in mute agony gropes on,
Because he dare not—cannot turn.
For he has seen the Light afar,
Whose faintest gleam some promise gives.
Has heard the still small voice repeat:
“Thy soul still lives—thy soul still lives.”

I pray for him, for I have felt
The galling pangs of pride and shame,
And every failure self must meet
Along its weary, hard-fought way;
Till in surrender sweet I found
My Father’s Home where there is peace,
And Love Divine all Being fills,
And sorrows cease—forever cease.

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