A KNITTER'S PRAYER.
I pray when risen from the dead,
I may in glory stand,
Perhaps a crown upon my head,
But four needles in my hand,
I never learned to sing or play,
So let no harp be mine,
From childhood to my dying day,
Plain knitting's been my line
And so at close the trumpets roll,
I have no fame nor riches
But sweet content's knit in my soul,
In a million happy stitches