The Undone

It isn't the thing you do, dear,

It's the thing you leave undone,

That gives you the bitter heartache

At the setting of the sun;

The tender word unspoken,

The letter you did not write,

The flower you might have sent, dear,

Are your haunting ghosts at night.

 

The stone you might have lifted

Out of your brother's way,

The bit of heartfelt counsel

You were hurried too much to say;

The loving touch of the hand, dear,

The gentle and winsome tone,

That you had no time or thought for,

With troubles enough of your own.

 

These little acts of kindness,

So easily out of mind,

These chances to be angels,

Which even mortals find --

They come in nights of silence,

To take away the grief,

When hope is faint and feeble,

And a drought has stopped belief.

 

For life is all too short, dear.

And sorrow is all too great,

To allow our slow compassion

That tarries until too late.

And it's not the thing you do, dear,

It's the thing you leave undone,

That gives you the bitter heartache,

At the setting of the sun.

 

                                   - Adelaide Proctor

 

 

The whole of it is beautiful.  But the bold stanza... well it is bold indeed. 

 

Lord, may I act upon the whispers you impress on my heart so as not to leave at least these things undone.  And may I trust your Spirit to guide me and lead me according to your will, without allowing my own circumstances to restrain me or contain me or define me.

 

"Out of the most severe trial, their overflowing joy and their extreme poverty welled up in rich generosity." (2 Corinthians 8:2, NIV)