After this exile: not while groping here
In this low valley full of mists and chills,
Waiting and watching till the day breaks clear
Over the brow of the eternal hills —
Mother, sweet dawn of that unsetting sun,
Show us thy Jesus when the night is done!
After this exile: when our toils are o'er,
And we, poor laborers, homeward turn our feet;
When we shall ache and work and weep no more,
But know the rest the weary find so sweet,
Mother of pity, merciful and blest,
Show us thy Jesus in the "Land of Rest."
After this exile: winter will be past,
And the rain over, and the flowers appear,
And we shall see in God's own light at last
All we have sought for in the darkness here;
Then, Mother, turn on us thy loving eyes,
And show us Jesus — our eternal prize!
