EACH HATH HIS OWN.
Each hath his own. To thee the light
That broods in tender eyes—
To me the darkness and the blight
Of lonely wasting sighs.
In fields where fruits and flowers press,
With manna thou wert fed;
In many a thorny wilderness
My bleeding feet were led.
God's face shone through the stars for thee,
And life came tender-wise;
Through sorrow's mists He looked at me—
My portion, sacrifice.
For thee there shone in distant gleams
Illimitable day;
I drank from Marah's bitter streams,
And went my lonely way.
I would not change! To each his own;
The rugged steeps I trod
Familiar to my feet have grown,
And yet may lead to God.