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144
The Gate of Rest.
TO THE MEMORY OF MRS. SARAH THRING AND HER SON, THEODORE.
SEPTEMBER 26TH, 28TH, 1891.
Her heart was brimmed with full a hundred years
Of patience, wisdom, tenderness and grace,
A hundred years had lined her gentle face
With smile-worn curves and furrowing for tears,
And still forlorn of all her childhood's peers
Quite uncomplainingly she held her place,
And wondered when, to crown her lengthened race,
Would come the wreath that Death in mercy bears.
Of patience, wisdom, tenderness and grace,
A hundred years had lined her gentle face
With smile-worn curves and furrowing for tears,
And still forlorn of all her childhood's peers
Quite uncomplainingly she held her place,
And wondered when, to crown her lengthened race,
Would come the wreath that Death in mercy bears.
A hundred years! a hundred years and one!
She heard a second century's advent chime,
Nor rose to go, she well had learned to wait,
Then to her side God called her eldest son
And both together entered thro' that gate
Where rest is sure—and Life has done with time.
She heard a second century's advent chime,
Nor rose to go, she well had learned to wait,
Then to her side God called her eldest son
And both together entered thro' that gate
Where rest is sure—and Life has done with time.
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