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.