4649430Poems — The OrganistEdith Willis Linn
THE ORGANIST.
THE organist sits at the key-board,
His hands glide to and fro,
Blindly he strikes the pedals
Hidden in gloom below;
Silent the keys he touches;
But far above the air
Breathes through the pipes in music,
A hymn of praise or prayer.

So in this life men labor
In darkness, doubt and pain;
Dumb are the keys before them,
But far above, a strain
Of sweet and holy music
May break upon the ear,
To lift some soul from sorrow,
To ease some heart of fear.

God only asks that we labor
On life's key-board day by day;
We shrink at many a discord,
Discouraged, cease to pray;
But sure as we work in earnest,
With the duties that lie below,
Though silent the keys we finger,
Somewhere the song will flow.