As strangers here in foreign lands we roam,
Oh, why should not the exile sigh for home?
A thousand snares beset our thorny way,
And night is round us—why not wish for
day?
The storm is high, beneath its wintry wing
The blossom fades—oh, why not wish for
Spring?
The waters roll o’er treasures buried deep,
And sacred dust the lonely churchyards keep—
Homes are dissolved and ties are rent in twain,
And things that charm can never charm again,
On every brow we mark the hand of time,
Oh, why not long for the celestial clime?
Wave after wave rolls inward to the land,
Then comes the wail and then the parting hand,
And those for whom we would have freely died
Are borne away upon the ebbing tide;
We weep and mourn, we bid the sea restore,
It mocks our grief—and takes one idol more.
’Tis well for us that ties which bind the heart
Too strongly here are rudely snapped apart;
’Tis well the pitcher at the fountain breaks,
The golden bowl is shattered for our sakes,
To show how frail and fleeting all we love,
To raise our souls to lasting things above.
We are but pilgrims—like the tribes who
roam
In every land but call no land their home,—
And what their ancient Canaan is to them,
So is to us the New Jerusalem;
Then while our hopes, our hearts, our homes are there,
“Thy Kingdom come” must be our
fervent prayer!
Ah, well it is for thee that there is one ear that
will listen, one eye that pities, one heart that will
take thee in—“Thou God seest me!”
Was ever consolation contained in so few words?
Oh, repeat it when the heart is breaking—when
between thee and every earthly object yawns a gulf
dark and impassable. Thou God seest me!
Thou God lovest me—lovest me!
Thou knowest the agony of my spirit: thou knowest
what I suffer, and thou must give me strength and grace
to endure all, and to say in truth and sincerity,
Thy will not mine be done.
“WE SEE THROUGH A GLASS, DARKLY.”
We weep when from the darkened sky
The thunderbolts are driven,
And wheresoe’er we turn our eye
Our earthly hopes are riven;
But could we look beyond the storm
That threatens all before us,
We might observe a heavenly form
Guiding the tempest o’er us.
The eye that sees, the sparrow’s fall,
That never sleeps nor slumbers,
Beholds our griefs however small,
And every sigh he numbers.
The angels fly at his command,
With love their bosoms swelling,
They lead us gently by the hand,—
They hover round our dwelling.
And when the fading things of earth
Our hearts too fondly cherish,
Forgetful of their mortal birth,
How suddenly they perish!
But ’tis in mercy and in love
Our Father thus chastises,
To fix our thoughts on things above;
He strikes, yet sympathizes.
