Whatever our station in life, but look round,
Some object of pity is easily found,
The aged, distressed, or the young let astray,
Are by no means uncommon, I'm sorry to say.
To banish cold Want from the sufferer's door;
O'er the spirit that's wounded, soft pity to pour
The tears of the widow and orphan to dry;
Oh, it's wonderful what we can do if we try!
How sad to imagine the fault may be ours,
That many are weeds that were meant to be flowers;
There are plenty (God, help them!) now guilty and bad,
Had been better if different teaching they'd had.
And where, in this strange, busy world, would I ask,
Is so glorious a labour, so grateful a task,
As to cheer up the hearts of the wretched with joy!
And it's wonderful what we can do if we try!
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