I must travel the miles till the journey is done, Whatsoever the turn of the way. I shall bring up at last at the set of the sun, And shall rest at the close of the day. Let me deal as I journey with foeman and friends In a way that no man can assail, And find nothing but peace at the roadway’s last bend, When I come to the end of the trail. We are brothers who travel a great, common road, And the journey is easy for none. We must succor the weary and lift on the load Of the pilgrim whose courage is done. Let me deal with them each on my way to the West With a mercy that never shall fail, And lie down to my dreams with a conscience at rest When I come to the end of the trail. If Christ Is Not Divine (1923) If Christ is not divine, Then lay the Book away, And every blessed faith resign That has so long been yours and mine, Through many a trying day; Forget the place of bended knee; And dream no more of worlds to be. If Christ is not divine, Go seal again the tomb; Take down the Cross, Redemption’s sign; Quench all the stars of hope that shine; Forget the upper room; And let us turn and travel on Across the night that knows no dawn. The Making of Home (1923) God took a hearth-fire, warm and bright, And planted love beside it; Spun happy laughter through its light, So gay no gloom could hide it. He wove a golden thread of song Among the flick’ring shadows, Like that where days are bright and long Upon the summer meadows. He made a sanctuary fair With His own presence gifted. He built a holy altar there Where hearts should oft be lifted. With His watch-care perennial He wrapped it ’round and framed it. He flung a roof above it all, And Home was what He named it. No Room in the Inn (1923) [Transcriber’s note: All verses are italicized.] The stars in the heavens were gleaming On mountains, and meadows, and rills. The song of the angels was streaming While shepherds kept watch on the hills. The wise men bent low by a manger, Apart from Earth’s striving and din, To welcome the Heavenly Stranger, For there was no room in the inn. The years have not halted their sweeping, It is Christmas again on the earth. Again the glad season we’re keeping, Recounting the tale of His birth. Let not our hearts be, as He sees us, So crowded with pleasure and sin They can offer no welcome to Jesus. Lord, let there be room in the inn. Our Hearts Forget (1923) [Transcriber’s note: All verses are italicized.] Our hearts forget, Amid the daily round of toil and fret. They are so weak, so prone to lose their hold On dreams of yesterday, and treasures old. The thoughts that thrilled them in a vanished day, Forgotten now, are cold in ashes gray. Life brings us wondrous days and hours, but yet