I am thinking to night of the sweet long ago, Of my childhood, so happy and free, Of the dear faces lying low under the mold, Though weary and heart-sick are we; We toilers, left to glean in the fields, Of ambition, hatred and strife, We glean, and we gather, and store, away care, And flee all the glory of life.
We barter the God-given blessing of Peace, For the glittering dross of the world; We turn from the white-spired temple of Truth, Where she dwells with her banner unfurled. From the depths of Earth's sorrowing heart comes a wail, For the infinite peace that abides, In the great heart of Him who wounded with thorns, For the sins of the multitude died.
In the tumult and din of the great city's strife, The voice of the Father still lives; 'Tis the still small voice of the innermost heart, That blessing the being, still gives, A hope for the future, a crown, and a palm, For the sorrowing souls that endure, That chastened by suffering out of the fire, Emerge, ever stainless and pure.
Though deep in the strength of man's moral sense, Dwells the wish of the purest and best, The fountains of passion, temptation, and sin, Tempt the true heart away from its rest. For, when in the multitude, One of old set, The frail one accused by the throng, Not one of the many, presumed to be first, To cast, (himself, blameless of wrong) A stone at the erring one who had sinned, But the voice of the Great One replied, "Neither do I condemn thee, go sin no more," For such the Son of man died.
While the blue heavens above us endure, Perfection shall never find place In the heart of the pilgrim, till shadowing far, His eyes on the City of Grace, Shall rest in sweet quietude never away, To wander through darkness and gloom, For life is a battle with passion and strife, From the cradle to the tomb.
