Poems.
51
And days and months so swiftly fly,
And years so soon are past,
That none of us can tell how nigh
We may be to our last.
And years so soon are past,
That none of us can tell how nigh
We may be to our last.
THERE IS A HOME.
There 's a calm for the wearied mind,
A balm for the aching breast,
A place where the troubled find
A never-ending rest.
There 's a home for the tempted soul,
There 's peace for the wounded heart,
Where eternal ages roll,
Where sorrows have no part.
A balm for the aching breast,
A place where the troubled find
A never-ending rest.
There 's a home for the tempted soul,
There 's peace for the wounded heart,
Where eternal ages roll,
Where sorrows have no part.
There 's quiet for the child of grief.
The outcast of hope forlorn;
A balsam of sweet relief,
For the victim of misery and scorn.
There 's rest where the homeless find
Repose from life's weary dream,
Where no rude buffeting wind,
Disturbs the hallowed scene.
The outcast of hope forlorn;
A balsam of sweet relief,
For the victim of misery and scorn.
There 's rest where the homeless find
Repose from life's weary dream,
Where no rude buffeting wind,
Disturbs the hallowed scene.
