The Moabitess

SWEET Moab gleaner on old Israel’s plain,

Thy simple story moveth like a power.

Thy pure, calm face looks from the ripened grain,

Wherein thou gleanest, on our toil and pain,

And in the light of thy soft eyes again

Our dead lives bud and blossom into flower.

But lives like thine, sweet Ruth, are holy things,

Rich, simple, earnest in their wealth of duty;—

God’s love forever to their music sings,

His angels shield them with their sheltering wings,

His spirit truth and trust and comfort brings,

And God Himself smiles on their godlike beauty.