Within My House

First, there's the entrance, narrow, and so small, The hat-stand seems to fill the tiny hall; That staircase, too, has such an awkward bend, The carpet rucks, and rises up on end! Then, all the rooms are cramped and close together; And there's a musty smell in rainy weather. Yes, and it makes the daily work go hard To have the only tap across a yard. These creaking doors, these draughts, this battered paint, Would try, I think, the temper of a saint, How often had I railed against these things, With envies, and with bitter murmurings For spacious rooms, and sunny garden plots! Until one day, Washing the breakfast dishes, so I think, I paused a moment in my work to pray; And then and there All life seemed suddenly made new and fair; For, like the Psalmist's dove among the pots (Those endless pots, that filled the tiny sink!), My spirit found her wings. "Lord" (thus I prayed), "it matters not at all That my poor home is ill-arranged and small: I, not the house, am straitened; Lord, 'tis I! Enlarge my foolish heart, that by-and-by I may look up with such a radiant face Thou shalt have glory even in this place. And when I trip, or stumble unawares In carrying water up these awkward stairs, Then keep me sweet, and teach me day by day To tread with patience Thy appointed way. As for the house . . . . Lord, let it be my part To walk within it with a perfect heart."