364. A Basque Peasant returning from Church

O LITTLE lark, you need not fly

To seek your Master in the sky,

He treads our native sod;

Why should you sing aloft, apart?

Sing to the heaven of my heart;

In me, in me, in me is God!

O strangers passing in your car,

You pity me who come so far

On dusty feet, ill shod;

You cannot guess, you cannot know

Upon what wings of joy I go

Who travel home with God.

From far-off lands they bring your fare,

Earth’s choicest morsels are your share,

And prize of gun and rod;

At richer boards I take my seat,

Have dainties angels may not eat:

In me, in me, in me is God!

O little lark, sing loud and long

To Him who gave you flight and song,

And me a heart aflame.

He loveth them of low degree,

And He hath magnified me,

And holy, holy, holy is His Name!