THE SPARROWS HAVE FOUND A PLACE TO BUILD.
By Fannie Bolton
The sparrows have found a place to build their nest,
Even thine altars, O thou Lord of all.
They sing and twitter, flying to their rest,
And thou dost note their rise and mark their fall,
And thy great heart beats softly, lest its throb
Should fright them from the shelter of thy breast.
And will thine ear of love hear not the sob
Of mourners who would fain find place to rest? The sparrows have found a place to build their nest,
Even thine altars. O rejoice, sad heart;
God loves thee, yearns to fold thee to his breast;
He gives thee in his infinite love a part.
Oh, as the sparrows fly with confidence
Unto his altars, o'er their young to brood,
So nestle thou beneath his wings, and hence
Know all things work together for thy good. The sparrows have found a place to build their nest.
Praise to the Lord for this sweet hint of him.
He will not even a bird of air molest,
And will he look on those whose eyes are dim
With bitter tears in vengeance and in hate?
Oh, no! behold, he gently, gently pleads,
“Come unto me, O heart most desolate,
Behold, my heart with all thy sorrow bleeds.” The sparrows have found a place to build their nest;
And so have we, aye, we may brood our young
Under his wings, aye, in his very breast,
And we may sing with joy as they have sung.
Day after day we may fly forth to be
Still in his radiant love, our rise and fall
Noted by him in love, and, glad and free,
Know that his breast is open to us all. The sparrows have found a place to build their nest.
No hand can harm them there, no bird of prey
Fall on their young. In oversheltering rest
We too may praise and work and sing and play,
Nestling as birds beneath a downy wing,
Nestling as children at a father's breast,
Here we may play or work, or weep or sing,
But all be joy—we've found a place to rest. O glory unto God, O shelter blest,
What wings 'twill give us, swift to fly for him!
What song will rise in such a place of rest!
And even when our eyes with tears are dim,
How sweet those tears will be when his dear hand,
Nail-marked for us, will wipe them all away!
O come, poor hearts, from every weary land,
Fly to the shelter of his breast to-day.