In the Hospital
I lay me down to sleep,
With little thought or care
Whether my waking find
Me here or there.
A bowing, burdened head,
That only asks to rest,
Unquestioning, upon
A loving breast.
My good right hand forgets
Its cunning now.
To march the weary march
I know not how.
I am not eager, bold,
Nor strong—all that is past;
I am ready not to do
At last, at last.
My half day’s work is done,
And this is all my part;
I give a patient God
My patient heart,
And grasp His banner still,
Though all its blue be dim;
These stripes, no less than stars,
Lead after Him.
M.W. Howland.