CONSOLATION FOR THE LONELY.
By Mrs. Howitt
THERE is a land where beauty cannot fade,
Nor sorrow dim the eye;
Where true love shall not droop, nor be dismay'd,
And none shall ever die.
Where is that land, oh! where?
For I would hasten there.
Tell me—I fain would go,
For I am wearied with a heavy woe.
The beautiful have left me all alone;
The true, the tender, from my path are gone.
O guide me with thy hand,
If thou dost know that land,
For I am burden'd with oppressive care,
And I am weak and fearful with despair.
Where is it? tell me where. Friend, thou must trust in Him who trod before
The desolate paths of life;
Must bear in meekness as he meekly bore
Sorrow, and pain, and strife.
Think how the Son of God
These thorny paths hath trod;
Think how he long'd to go,
Yet tarried out for thee the appointed woe.
Think of his weariness in places dim,
When no man comforted or cared for him.
Think of the blood like sweat,
With which his brow was wet,
Yet how he pray'd, unaided and alone,
In that great agony, “Thy will be done.”
Friend, do not thou despair,
Christ from his Heaven of heavens will hear thy prayer.