HIGH up in the topmost garret,
Lonely and poor and old,
Always weak and aweary,
Often hungry and cold,
There lay a bed-ridden soldier
With all of his marches done,
Except just the one that he longed for
To the land beyond the sun;
And the kindly hand of a neighbour
On the table by his side
Left the day’s three meals, in three small cups,
Till she came at the eventide.
With the first in the dawn would David
Sing aloud— “My cup runneth o’er”
And the second—when painful and tired,
So long and so slow seemed each hour—
Would remind him of One who so loved him,
Of the terrible cup which He took,
Of its bitter dregs that He tasted,
Of “Thy will be done” that He spoke.
And the third cup he took in the evening
With the span of his life nearly o’er;
What joy that “a cup of cold water”
Remained for the weak and the poor
To give in the name of the Master,
Who alone can apprise the cost,
And honours the least of His servants
Because ‘tis in His name they boast.
So out of his small soldier’s pension,
And out of his happy old heart,
Went—akin to the widow’s “one farthing”—
Such assistance as he could impart.
It is often His wisdom and pleasure
That the great and the wise ones should learn,
From the life of some humble ignored one,
Great truths which to blessing may turn.
Oh for eyes by His Spirit anointed,
And for ears on His messages bent,
That the heart may be tuned to His measures,
And the tongue to His praises be lent;
To love—not the rich and the clever,
To esteem—not the high-born and great,
But the poor and the suffering and lowly
That bear the “redeemed one’s” estate.
L. J. M.