p. 2 | HURRYING HOME by C. M. Snow

Pacific Press Publishing Company · Oakland, California · Jun 26, 1901

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 27, No. 26.

HURRYING HOME.

By C. M. Snow

WE are sweeping along to the swing of time In the marvelous race of eternal years, Like the measured rune of a musical rhyme With its mingling sorrows and smiles and tears. 'Tis a grand old race we are sweeping thru, As the years go circling, one by one, From the hand of God out into the blue, Beyond the reach of the great white sun.

'Tis a pitiful race; for as days go by, There fall by our side, on the rugged road, The weak and the wilful, to droop and die 'Neath the crushing weight of a cruel load. The smart of the thorn is in their side; The bruise of the stone is a racking pain; Their woe is a badge which they can not hide; They fall as they struggle to rise again.

'Tis a wearisome race; for the load they bear Has bowed the back of the strongest men; And those who were anxious to do and dare Are whelmed in the ooze of a treacherous fen. The hours were long, and they labored late; The road was rough, and the mountain steep; A hand bore down like the hand of fate; They dropped by the wayside in troublous sleep.

'Tis a gladsome race; for they who cling To the hand of God up the rugged way Can rest refreshed, and rise and sing Thru the whole long span of the laboring day. Then the night comes down with its soft caress, And folds them in with a tender hand— A kiss on the brow and a prayer to bless, They peacefully enter the slumber-land.

'Tis a glorious race, and the goal in sight Is the city of God with its mansions fair; Thru all the dread of the darksome night Our Saviour was waiting and watching there. We are gathering home—'tis a glorious day; The harps are tuned for the welcoming song; We can almost hear, down the star-strewn way, The swelling tide of that choral throng.

Oakland, Cal.

C. M. Snow.