I pray that, risen from the dead,
I may in glory stand—
A crown, perhaps, upon my head,
But a needle in my hand.
I’ve never learned to sing or play,
So let no harp be mine;
From birth unto my dying day,
Plain sewing’s been my line.
Therefore, accustomed to the end
To plying useful stitches,
I’ll be content if asked to mend
The little angels’ breeches.