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The Beautiful Hills

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Review and Herald Publishing Association · Washington, D. C. · Jan 12, 1911

FromReview and Herald, Vol. 88, No. 2.

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The Beautiful Hills

By Mary Valliant Nowlin

MARY VALLIANT NOWLIN
The beautiful hills are far away,— The Canaan hills in the land of day,— And this is a sad, sad place to be, This world of darkness and misery. Of sorrow and pain there is so much, And of broken hearts; and life is such. And O, the crying that won’t be still, And the vacant places none can fill; But ever the sweet songs come and go Like the silvery sound of the river’s flow. Some day the moan of the bar will cease, And our burdened hearts will find release. Change may these hills that we look on here With every change of the changing year; But morning comes, and the break of day Now shows us the other hills away,— The Canaan hills that forever stand Firm fixed by God’s own mighty hand.
O happy hills! O heavenly cheer! O songs of peace that we scarce can hear For babel voices of strife and care, And the sound of grinding everywhere! My spirit yearns, yea, it thirsts to be Filled with thy fulness, flowing free Like the potent move of the mighty tide Out on the deep where the white ships ride. Come, fill me now, while I’m waiting here, That my song may reach (sweet, heavenly cheer) Some who are weary and dumb with pain, That they may hear and take heart again,— May hear and be glad, while they look afar Where a beacon shines, like a shining star, Of the distant land stretching far away,— Sweet home where the hills of glory lay. There afflictions shall not rise again, Nor voice of crying nor moan of pain.
O God! on that blessed glory shore I long to meet with my loved once more. Lord, I ask that those for whom I pray May be where the hills of glory lay. But I can not see. On roll the years, With prayers unanswered, and blinding tears. But there comes once more the heavenly swell Of the songs of peace, and all is well. From the crystal sea their paeans roll Like the voice of God. Rest, rest, my soul; Life is but brief, and brief is its pain; O loved and lost, we shall meet again. The lifting mists of night’s shadows show The morning coming, when I shall know. Arise; for surely the night is o’er. All hail to the hills of the Canaan shore! Arise and sing; for the dawning light Will show us the heavenly hills in sight.
Takoma Park, D. C.