Twilight Musings by M. A. W. Foster

The Seventh-day Adventist Publishing Association · Battle Creek, Mich. · Feb 19, 1867

Twilight Musings.

By M. A. W. Foster

I AM musing in the twilight, Of the past, and bygone years, Ere I knew the gentle Shepherd, When his voice I would not hear.

Oh! I know how far he traveled, After me, a wayward child, How I sought to hide me from him, In the tangled copses wild.

How I argued with my own heart, Telling ’twas so full of sin, Even if the Saviour found me, He would never take me in.

How I thought the way so narrow, Rugged, and so very steep, That the pilgrims walking in it, Moaned with weary, bleeding feet.

Then I labored all the harder, To elude his faithful eye; And I whispered in my blindness, Surely he will pass me by.

But at last my Saviour found me; Drew me to him by his love, And his smile was so benignant, That I could not from him rove.

Then he took me in his bosom, Carried me to Pisgah’s height; Showed me all the land of promise, Basking in celestial light.

Showed me the “Eternal city,” With its mirrored, golden streets. Showed me all its twelve foundations, And its glistening, pearly gates.

Said if I would keep his precepts, Keep them faithful every one, In that bright and glorious city, I should find at last a home.

Promised to be with me ever, Through the changing scenes of life, Promised he would send his angels, To be with me in each strife,

To defend from Satan’s legions, And to buoy my spirits up; Said himself had once been tempted, Drained himself the bitter cup.

Then I knew that I could trust him, Trust him all the journey through; And I gave my stained heart to him, For his love so pure and true.

Then he washed me in a fountain, That which cleanseth from all sin. Now my peace is like a river, All is calm and pure within.

Now when tempests gather round me, And I shrink from tears and pain, I but think of that bright vision, And my heart grows strong again.

And my faith grows firmer, brighter, As I near the promised rest; For I soon shall see the “city,” With its inmates pure and blest.

M. A. W. FOSTER.

Cooperville, Mich.