Within a dark and cheer­less hut,
Where haugh­ty spurned to stray,
Where even sun­shine paused not long
An old saint knelt to pray.

Her ill-clad form was bent with age,
Her crisp hair specked with snow,
Her wrin­kled face was up­ward turned:
Her voice was deep and low.

Long she had worn her ar­mor bright;
Oft Sa­tan’s host de­fied;
Full six­ty years she’d faced the brunt,
And still she was not tired.

Her faith was strong­er than the winds
That rent Lake Ga­li­lee;
She laid her cross­es at His feet;
His blood her on­ly plea.

Before a liv­ing God she knelt,
She felt His pre­sence near;
She prayed with all her heart, this saint:
She knew her Lord would hear.

Had not she felt His kind­ly arm
Embrace with fa­ther’s care,
And bear her up, she knew not how,
From ut­ter, dire des­pair?

She knew on whom her hopes were built,
To whom her wrongs to tell,
She felt a peace steal o’er her heart,
That told her, all was well.

Yes, all is well, oh bless­èd saint,
Thou low­ly one di­vine!
God strikes the shac­kle from dim eyes
And bids the light to shine.

Thou strong and migh­ty one in pray­er,
Thou heir to bliss on high—
Cease not thine ar­dent, heav’n­ly chant,
Jehovah heeds thy cry.