Open Wide The Windows Of Our Spirits

Rest, Rest At The Heart's Core . . . Till Joy Shall Overtake.

My Heart Is Like A Singing Bird Whose Nest Is In A Water'd Shoot; My Heart Is Like An Apple-tree Whose Boughs Are Bent With Thick-set Fruit.

Oh That It Were With Me As With The Flower; Blooming On Its Own Tree For Butterfly And Bee Its Summer Morns: That I Might Bloom Mine Hour A Rose In Spite Of Thorns. Oh That My Work Were Done As Birds' That Soar Rejoicing In The Sun: That When My Time Is Run And Daylight Too, I So Might Rest Once More Cool With Refreshing Dew.

And Sometimes I Remember Days Of Old When Fellowship Seemed Not So Far To Seek, And All The World And I Seemed Much Less Cold, And At The Rainbow's Foot Lay Surely Gold, And Hope Felt Strong, And Life Itself Not Weak.

It Is Not The Deed We Do Though The Deed Be Never So Fair, But The Love That The Dear Lord Looketh For, Hidden With Lovely Care In The Heart Of The Deed So Fair.