Poems (Edwards)/Our Preacher
OUR PREACHER.
We miss him at the evening hour, When all around is still;When Phœbus sheds his last faint rays, Upon the western hill;When o'er the sky the silvery moon Steals gently on her way;We miss him from the Bible-stand Where he was wont to pray.
We miss him from the fire-side When' cold the bleak wind blows,When on the hearth, the sparkling fire In cheerful splendour glows;When eyes are beaming tenderly, And words are kind and sweet,We miss our much loved Preacher then From his accustomed seat.
We miss his kind and gentle words, His soft and winning ways;We miss the sunlight of pure bliss That on his features plays;We miss the smile we loved to see, Soft stealing o'er his cheek;We miss the truths—the sacred truths, Our Preacher used to speak.
We miss him when the morning light, Spreads gently o'er the skies;We miss him through the busy day, In sadness and in sighs:But oh! when done with earthly things, May we our Preacher meet,All gathered with the angel-band, Around our Father's feet.