The Trust

 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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