I gathered shells upon the sand, Each shell a little perfect thing, So frail, yet potent to withstand The mountain-waves' wild buffeting.
Through storms no ship could dare to brave The little shells float lightly, save All that they might have lost of fine Shape and soft colour crystalline.
Yet I amid the world's wild surge Doubt if my soul can face the strife, The waves of circumstance that urge That slight ship on the rocks of life.
O soul, be brave, for He who saves The frail shell in the giant waves, Will bring thy puny bark to land Safe in the hollow of His hand.
