Is my heart ordered, clean, and sweet,
For my loved Master’s hasting feet?
Is my heart warm, that, when He stands
Chilled, He may stoop and warm his hands?
And quiet that He may be blest —
Tired from all turmoil — and have rest?
And lighted, that He may forget
The rough road, and the storm and wet?
Garnished with fragrant flowers, that might
Recall dear joys across black night ?
And is there bread? and wine? lest He
Should thirst — or should be hungry?
Hark! Who is there? Oh, enter in!
Enters a man bowed down with sin.
Behind him, bent, is one who stands,
A broken heart within her hands;
And back of them (oh, shut the wild
Night out!) a shrinking starvèd child.
A step! O Master do not wake
Thy friends who sleep here for thy sake!
Disturb them not, O Mighty Guest!
They sleep! They have such need of rest!
The Master smiles, then He and I
Go softly; speak but whisperingly.