CONSOLATIONS FOR THE LONELY.
By Mary Howitt
THERE is a land where beauty cannot fade,
Nor sorrow dim the eye;
Where true love shall not droop, nor be dismayed,
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 wo!
The beautiful have left me all alone;
The true, the tender, from my path have gone!
O guide me with thy hand,
If thou dost know that land,
For I am burdened 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 longed to go,
Yet tarried out, for thee, the appointed wo;
Think of his weariness in places dim,
Where no man comforted or cared for him!
Think of the blood-like sweat,
With which his brow was wet—
Yet how he prayed unaided and alone,
In that great agony, "Thy will be done!"
Friend, do thou not despair;
Christ, from his heaven of heavens, will hear thy prayer!