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The Trust

by
 Because I've eighty years and odd,
 And darkling is my day,
I now prepare to meet my God,
 And for forgiveness pray.
Not for salvation is my plea, Nor Heaven hope,--just rest: Begging: "Dear Father, pardon me, I did not do my best.
"I did not measure with the Just To serve my fellow men; But unto levity and lust I loaned my precious pen.
I sorrow for the sacred touch, And though I toiled with zest, Dear God, have mercy, in-as-much I did not do my best.
"I bless You for the gift you gave That brought me golden joy; Yet here beside the gentle grave I grieve for its employ.
Have pity, Lord,--so well I know I failed you in the test, And my last thought is one of woe: I did not do my best.
"

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