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Because, dear Christ, your tender, wounded arm Bends back the brier that edges life's long way, That no hurt comes to heart, to soul no harm, I do not feel the thorns so much to-day.

Because I never knew your care to tire, Your hand to weary guiding me aright, Because you walk before and crush the brier, It does not pierce my feet so much to-night.

Because so often you have hearkened to My selfish prayers, I ask but one thing now, That these harsh hands of mine add not unto The crown of thorns upon your bleeding brow.