THE man whose hopes grasp not the future state,
Whose eyes look not beyond this fleeting span,
Who sees not just before the hard-pressed van
A prize that towers high, a pearly gate
Whose pillars, strong and massive, wide and great,
Speak but of promised strength to puny man,—
He long the face of parting friends may scan,
For change may come, or death, their common fate.
But O the joy that thrills the hearts of those
Whose hopes are built on faith in Jesus' cross,
Whose eyes behold the land of promise nigh;
They part, but with no fear of earthly woes,
They part, nor count the tears of pain as loss,
Their parting word Farewell, and not Good-by.
MAX HILL.