WE are encompa**ed in our daily round
By a vast multitude, a mighty throng,
A cloud of witnesses, whose souls the song
Of praise to God utter without a sound,
In whose pure hearts trust, hope and love abound,
Whose instant prayers ascend on noiseless wings,
Whose proof of faith in secret alms is found,
The sacrifice claimed by the King of Kings.
Who are these saints that wear no earthly crown
Of glittering gems, or yet more royal thorns?
No outward sign of holiness adorns
Their plain humanity; in field or town
They move unseen save by the Sleepless Eye
That reads all hearts--the conscious destiny.