THE SONG OF THE CHURCH.
By Clyde Scott Chase
The violet peeping from its mossy bed,
Reflecting the pure azure of the sky,
Or wild rose, in its veil of crimson red,
Wooing the senses, with its magic sly,
Has not the sweetness of my True Love’s lips,
Nor half the brightness of his loving eye. Oft when discouraged, sick and travel-worn,
Lay I my weary head upon his breast,
All in my garments stained and briar-torn,
And feel a blessed and life-giving rest;
And know that, among all the things of earth,
To lean upon his loving heart is best. I can not speak the happiness he brought
To this marred image of his Father’s child
When, with true, pitying tenderness, he sought
The harlot roaming in the desert wild,
And, through a night of suffering and pain,
Bade me behold the morning sweet and mild My eyes, o’erswimming with repentant tears,
See not the beauty of that promised home
To which, in fulness of appointed years,
He in immortal tones will bid me come,
And take me, his fresh-robed and happy bride,
Forever from the paths where now I roam. But in my dreams I dimly can behold
The shadow of a mansion grand and fair.
It stands beside a street of shining gold,
Above which hangs a pure and peaceful air;
And, like the reflex of a silver cloud,
Bright, flying angel forms are mirrored there.