p. 6 | My Early Home by Myra M. Allen Lane

Review and Herald Publishing Association · Takoma Park Station, Washington, D. C. · Apr 20, 1916

My Early Home

By Myra M. Allen Lane

MYRA M. ALLEN LANE

I gaze again upon the scene That was my childhood’s early home; The fields, the woods, the meadowlands O’er which my childish feet did roam. Few changes have come o’er the spot Since I had gazed long years before, The same, yet not the same to me— My childhood’s home, my home of yore.

The stream still murmurs by, ’tis true; And other trees do lend their shade, But none can seem so dear as those ’Neath whose green branches I have played.

The meadows wide, the forest deep, The swirl and eddies of the stream, I gaze upon, and yet they seem As some vague, half-forgotten dream.

The grass appears to be less green, The flowers appear to be less gay, The voices that I heard in youth Enchanting me have passed away. The roseate hue of early life, With all its rainbow-tinted rays, The hopes, the joys of childhood’s time, Have passed away with youthful days.

My mother sits beside the fire, Her hair is white, her eye is dim; She sits and muses of the past, And speaks, in voice subdued, of him To whom her early troth was given: Their years of struggle in the West To carve a home from savage wilds For those, of all the earth, loved best.

My father’s grave’s hard by the stream Where oft we played in vanished years. He lies alone, his hallowed dust Now watered by his loved ones’ tears. And I have learned with added days That duty’s voice, obeyed as best Is given me to understand, Will bring at last true peace and rest.

For home, sweet home, my soul doth long— For this I gird me for the race— That home, prepared by God’s own hand And lighted by the Saviour’s face, Prepared in those blest realms of light For those doomed in this life to roam, Who’re wanderers in this pilgrimage, But there at rest in God’s own home,

No more to part from those they love, No more to sorrow or to weep; So then we’ll close our eyes in peace, For he doth give his loved ones sleep, But when the trump of God shall sound To call us from our beds of dust, We’ll pour forth anthems full of praise To him in whom we’ve put our trust:

The song of Moses and the Lamb, Of triumph over sin and death, To him who calls us from the grave And in our bodies puts his breath. The earth the saints’ inheritance, The paths therein made safe and sure, The houses built, the vines we plant, Throughout the ages will endure.

Our meeting place before God’s throne— No thing unclean shall enter there, But purity and perfect truth, With song and praise and gladsome prayer. Sin shall not rise the second time, To mar, with its polluting breath, The beauty of that heritage, And spread abroad the gloom of death.

But God himself will stay our tears And comfort us for all we’ve borne, And cause us to forget our grief In that glad resurrection morn. We’ll meet again, we’ll meet again, No more to sorrow or to roam, And God’s own hand will welcome us In Father-land, our own blest home.

Brownlee, Nebr.