At the River.
I am standing alone by a mystic tide,
And the dark swift waters flow past my feet,
While’st floating across from the other side
Come strains of music, heavenly sweet,
And I see the beautiful white-robed throng
Beckoning to me across the wave,
And I long to join in the rapturous song,
But the cold, dark waters I dare not brave.
I press my feet to the River of Death,
But backward shrink with quivering start
For the icy waters have stopped my breath
And frozen the blood in my frightened heart,
Then softly and sweetly the angel song
Comes floating across to my listening ear:
“Though the river is dark and swift and strong,
There is one who will help you, so be of good cheer.”
And then in the midst of the beautiful throng
A wondrous vision bursts on my sight:
I seem to see on that shining strand
A form of celestial glory and light,
And softly there steals to my troubled soul
Those loving words that calm all fear:
“Fear not, my child, though the river be cold
I will bear thee up, so be of good cheer.”
