For that refreshing rest that precious peace,
That common heritage, past comprehending,
When all the heart-aches shall forever cease.
"ANGELS ARE WAITING FOR ME."
A saint whose wearied body rests in the silent city crowning a little Oregon hill, and whose sacred memory is a precious legacy to those who survive her, and whose blessed example like an angel's touch gently impels heavenward, caught a few glimpses of the higher heaven from the heaven she lived in here below; and before the final hour came, gave expression in poetic, psalm-like language to her rapture upon the visions she beheld. These utterances were entrusted to a youth who wove them into the poetry of men; but often when I have read them, I have been unable to forego the felicity of feeling that they were the words of one whose body was on earth while her soul was already visiting the eternal city.
After the poem descants briefly upon her departure from the home of her birth to a far-distant land to share with the loved ones of earth in bearing the burdens and toil for Him who bled for our wrong, in the full consciousness of a glorious victory, she says: "His peace as a river now flows through soul and body so free that glory abounds in my heart while angels are waiting for me."
