 | The poetical writings of the late Willis Gaylord Clark |  |
113
HYMN
FOR THE EIGHTH ANNIVERSARY OF THE AMERICAN SUNDAY SCHOOL UNION.
We have met in peace together,
In this house of God again;
Constant friends have led us hither,
Here to chant the solemn strain:
Here to breathe our adoration,
While the balmy breeze of spring,
Like the Spirit of Salvation.
Comes with gladness on its wing!
In this house of God again;
Constant friends have led us hither,
Here to chant the solemn strain:
Here to breathe our adoration,
While the balmy breeze of spring,
Like the Spirit of Salvation.
Comes with gladness on its wing!
And, while nature glows with beauty,
While the fields are rich in flowers,
Shall our hearts neglect their duty,
Shall our souls abuse their powers?
Shall not all our hopes ascending,
Point us to a home above,
Where, in glory never ending,
He who made us smiles in love?
While the fields are rich in flowers,
Shall our hearts neglect their duty,
Shall our souls abuse their powers?
Shall not all our hopes ascending,
Point us to a home above,
Where, in glory never ending,
He who made us smiles in love?
There no autumn-tempests gather:
There no friends lament the dead;
And on fields that never wither,
Fadeless rays of light are shed:
There with bright immortal roses,
Angels wreath their harps of gold,
And each ransomed soul reposes
'Midst a scene of bliss untold.
There no friends lament the dead;
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Fadeless rays of light are shed:
There with bright immortal roses,
Angels wreath their harps of gold,
And each ransomed soul reposes
'Midst a scene of bliss untold.
We have met, and time is flying,
We shall part—and still his wing,
Sweeping o'er the dead and dying,
Will the changeful seasons bring;
Let us, while our hearts are lightest,
In our fresh and early years,
Turn to Him whose smile is brightest,
And whose grace will calm our fears.
We shall part—and still his wing,
Sweeping o'er the dead and dying,
Will the changeful seasons bring;
Let us, while our hearts are lightest,
In our fresh and early years,
Turn to Him whose smile is brightest,
And whose grace will calm our fears.
He will aid us, though existence
With its sorrows sting the breast;
Gleaming in the onward distance,
Faith will make the Land of Rest;
There, 'mid day-beams round him playing,
We our Father's face shall see,
And shall hear Him gently saying,
“Little children, come to me.”
With its sorrows sting the breast;
Gleaming in the onward distance,
Faith will make the Land of Rest;
There, 'mid day-beams round him playing,
We our Father's face shall see,
And shall hear Him gently saying,
“Little children, come to me.”
| The poetical writings of the late Willis Gaylord Clark | |