A WOMAN SPEAKS TO HIS SISTER

I NEVER clasped his hand,
He never knew my name,
And yet at his command,
I followed like a flame.

I pressed amid the crowd
To touch his garment's hem,
As one of old once touched
The Man of Bethlehem.

I was of those who toil,
Whose bread is wet with tears,
A daughter of the soil,
And bent, though not with years.

His words would lift the veil
That blurred my tired eyes,
They seemed to strengthen me
To serve and sacrifice.

And all the values lost,
When life was cold and grim,
Were clear and true again
Interpreted by him.

Our leader and our friend,
He knew what we must bear,
And to the gallant end
He bade us do and dare.

Clad in an armored truth
And by high purpose shod,
He gave us back our youth,
Our country, and our God!