From the converts of Uganda
Comes to us a story grander
In the lesson that it teaches
Than a sermon often preaches.
For they tell what sore temptations
Come to them; what need of patience,
And a need, all else outweighing,
Of a place for private praying.
So each convert chose a corner,
Far away from eye of scorner,
In the jungle, where he could
Pray to God in solitude.
And so often went he thither
That the grass would fade and wither
Where he trod; and you could trace,
By the paths, each prayer-place.
If they hear the evil tiding
That a brother is backsliding,
And that some are even saying,
"He no longer cares for praying":
Then they say to one another,
Very soft and gently, "Brother,
You'll forgive us now for showing
On your path the grass is growing.”
And the erring one, relenting,
Soon is bitterly repenting:
"Ah, how sad I am at knowing
On my path the grass is growing.”
"But it shall be so no longer;
Prayer I need to make me stronger.
On my path so oft' I'm going
Soon no grass will there be growing.”