Then tell me no more of the house by the road. There is only one place I can live-- It's there with the men who are toiling along, Who are needing the cheer I can give. It is pleasant to live in the house by the way And be a friend, as the poet has said; But the Master is bidding us, "Bear ye their load, For your rest waiteth yonder ahead."
I could not remain in the house by the road And watch as the toilers go on, Their faces beclouded with pain and with sin, So burdened, their strength nearly gone. I'll go to their side, I'll speak in good cheer, I'll help them to carry their load; And I'll smile at the man in the house by the way, As I walk with the crowd in the road.
Out there in the road that goes by the house, Where the poet is singing his song, I'll walk and I'll work midst the heat of the day, And I'll help falling brothers along-- Too busy to live in the house by the way, Too happy for such an abode. And my heart sings its praise to the Master of all, Who is helping me serve in the road.
Could we but draw back the curtains That surround each other's lives, See the naked heart and spirit, Know what spur the action gives, Often we should find it better, Purer than we judged we should, We should love each other better, If we only understood.
Could we judge all deeds by motives, See the good and bad within, Often we should love the sinner All the while we loathe the sin; Could we know the powers working To o'erthrow integrity, We should judge each other's errors With more patient charity.
If we knew the cares and trials, Knew the effort all in vain, And the bitter disappointment, Understood the loss and gain-- Would the grim, eternal roughness Seem--I wonder--just the same? Should we help where now we hinder, Should we pity where we blame?
Ah! we judge each other harshly, Knowing not life's hidden force; Knowing not the fount of action Is less turbid at its source; Seeing not amid the evil All the golden grains of good; Oh! we'd love each other better, If we only understood.
She sat on the sliding cushion, The dear, wee woman of four; Her feet, in their shiny slippers, Hung dangling over the floor. She meant to be good; she had promised, And so, with her big, brown eyes, She stared at the meeting-house windows And counted the crawling flies.