The poem
Another day of toil and strife, Another page so white, Within that fateful Log of Life That I and all must write; Another page without a stain To make of as I may, That done, I shall not see again Until the Judgment Day.
Ah, could I, could I backward turn The pages of that Book, How often would I blench and burn! How often loathe to look! What pages would be meanly scrolled; What smeared as if with mud; A few, maybe, might gleam like gold, Some scarlet seem as blood.
O Record grave, God guide my hand And make me worthy be, Since what I write to-day shall stand To all eternity; Aye, teach me, Lord of Life, I pray, As I salute the sun, To bear myself that every day May be a Golden One.