THE PILGRIM SIGHING FOR HOME.
Far from the home I cherish,
With pilgrim staff in hand,
I leave the things that perish,
And seek a better land:
Here cares and toils incessant
Await me at the best;
There, will be ever present
A long, sweet Sabbath rest. The home whose glittering treasure
Has cost a nation's woe,
Is poorer, beyond measure,
Than that to which I go;
Where blossoms are decaying,
Is seen the moistened eye;
Where golden harps are playing,
God has no tears to dry. Obtrusive recollection
Oft spreads before my sight,
Long days of sad dejection,
And many a gloomy night;
No day of lingering sorrow,
No night of heavy gloom;
But one unclouded morrow,
Meets me beyond the tomb. Since earth has more to pain me,
Than make me truly blest,
Its charms shall not detain me
From hastening to my rest;
E'en should my feet be bleeding,
And shelterless my head,
The pathway thither leading
I'll not refuse to tread. Thou who dost aid endeavor,
And all events command,
My Rock and Trust forever,
Hold me by thy right hand!
Then all that is distressing
In trials yet to come,
Converted to a blessing,
Will but endear my home. I sigh for that bright dwelling,
That goal of my desires,
Where melodies are swelling
From ever-sounding lyres;
Where with intense devotion,
Beings that need no rest,
All tongues, all chords in motion,
Strive which shall praise Thee best. There is to me allotted
A part in all their strains—
But ah! my robe is spotted
With many dismal stains!
Oh! for a robe whose whiteness
Is stainless like thine own,
To wear amid the brightness
That compasses thy throne! Clothe me in that pure raiment,
Which I so greatly need;
For which to furnish payment,
Thy wounded heart did bleed;
And since the blest adore thee,
All wearing crowns from thee,
That I may stand before thee,
Withhold not one from me!