| I walked through the woodland meadows, |
| Where sweet the thrushes sing; |
| And I found on a bed of mosses |
| A bird with a broken wing. |
| I healed its wound, and each morning |
| It sang its old sweet strain, |
| But the bird with a broken pinion |
| Never soared as high again. |
| |
| I found a young life broken |
| By sin's seductive art; |
| And touched with a Christlike pity, |
| I took him to my heart. |
| He lived with a noble purpose |
| And struggled not in vain; |
| But the life that sin had stricken |
| Never soared as high again. |
| |
| But the bird with a broken pinion |
| Kept another from the snare; |
| And the life that sin had stricken |
| Raised another from despair. |
| Each loss has its compensation, |
| There is healing for every pain; |
| But the bird with a broken pinion |
| Never soars as high again. |
| |
| Hezekiah Butterworth. |
