Dreams of the Unseen by Clara Edna Rosencrans

Pacific Press Publishing Association · Mountain View, California · Jun 10, 1913

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 40, No. 23.

Dreams of the Unseen

By Clara Edna Rosencrans

By Clara Edna Rosencrans

I dream of the beauty of Jesus’ face In its purity, calm, and love. Like a land-locked harbor resting still All earthly strife above. Like the sun in his strength, like the ocean at rest, Must that glorious vision be; Yet nothing earthly can e’er convey Its glory and beauty to me.

For faces are beautiful, fair, and good As they glow with the Spirit’s light; And looking into the soul’s calm depths, We may see with the Spirit’s sight. So something there is in the face of Christ That is deeper than mortal ken. And beauty of face and form are His Unknown to the sons of men.

Sometimes in fancy I try to think What the home of Jesus must be— That beautiful mansion in which He dwells By the side of the crystal sea. But tho on the beauties of earth I gaze, With its sunlit vistas fair, I know that no loveliness of earth Can with that home compare.

There are lakes, and rivers, and calm, still depths In the forests’ billowy green; There are lakes, and rivers, and calm, still depths In never-dimming sheen. Yet all we know of the beauties of earth But pale and fade and die Beside the glory manifest In the home of the Christ on high.

I try to think of the presence-room Where my Lord is ministering now, Of the faces of angels and seraphim Who rapt before Him bow. I try to think of the King supreme, And of the Son who does His will; But their glory and radiant majesty Are hidden from me still.

For nothing of earth’s poor royalty Can with that scene compare, For wondrous glory no eye has seen Surrounds the Saviour there. On that scene the eyes of unfallen worlds With wonder rapt are bent, But naught of our poor humanity Can fathom its deep intent.

For love so matchless, so wonderful, Can never be known or penned, As righteous God and repentant man Their work together blend. How deep, how anxious, how full of hope Should our trembling interest be, Knowing what sorrow or endless joy Are bound in that last decree:

And watching, and prayer, and earnest lives Should mark our walk below; For signs fulfil, the time is near— Tho the day, O, who can know? But this we know,—that the day draws on, And the hour is waxing late. Dare we risk the doom? Must we fail at last, And be left outside the gate?