WHERE SHALL I GO BUT UNTO THEE?
By Mary House
THAT blest retreat, the throne of prayer,
I'll turn my weary footsteps there;
Thy presence, Lord, I'll humbly seek,
And place my offering at thy feet. A heart with tears of sorrow stained—
Words that proceed from lips unfugned,
For when the heart has weary grown
Of earthward joys, that lately shone—
Of hollow friendship, coldly free,
Where shall I go but unto thee? Lord make me humble. Keep I pray
My feet from stumbling in the way,
From Fashion's high and haughty mien,
From pleasure's dazzling, gilded sheen,
From every gay enchantment given,
To lure me from the way to heaven.
When these temptations compass me,
Where shall I go but unto thee? O, may my footsteps never stray
From the strait gate, and narrow way,
Ne'er found in any way, but this
Which leads to joy and happiness.
And when that blessed rest draws nigh,
And we these pilgrim robes put by,
Grant me that rest, allot to me
A mansion nearer still to thee. Catlin, N. Y., March 17, 1862.