Within my House

First, there's the entrance, narrow, and so small,     The hat-stand seems to fill the tiny hall;     That staircase, too, has such an awkward bend,     The carpet rucks, and rises up on end!     Then, all the rooms are cramped and close together;     And there's a musty smell in rainy weather.     Yes, and it makes the daily work go hard     To have the only tap across a yard.     These creaking doors, these draughts, this battered paint,     Would try, I think, the temper of a saint,     How often had I railed against these things,     With envies, and with bitter murmurings     For spacious rooms, and sunny garden plots!     Until one day,     Washing the breakfast dishes, so I think,     I paused a moment in my work to pray;     And then and there     All life seemed suddenly made new and fair;     For, like the Psalmist's dove among the pots     (Those endless pots, that filled the tiny sink!),     My spirit found her wings.     "Lord" (thus I prayed), "it matters not at all     That my poor home is ill-arranged and small:     I, not the house, am straitened; Lord, 'tis I!     Enlarge my foolish heart, that by-and-by     I may look up with such a radiant face     Thou shalt have glory even in this place.     And when I trip, or stumble unawares     In carrying water up these awkward stairs,     Then keep me sweet, and teach me day by day     To tread with patience Thy appointed way.     As for the house . . . . Lord, let it be my part     To walk within it with a perfect heart."