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147
HOPE FOR OLD AGE.
SUGGESTED BY THE WORDS OF AN AGED PARISHIONER.
What though the hand of time, with deepening furrow,Has graven on my brow full fourscore years,
And oft my path has led through toils and tears,
Old age is not to me “labour and sorrow.”
This tent of mine is shattered, but I borrow
From failing flesh a brightening hope that cheers;
And as Life's sinking sun the horizon nears,
I hail the approach of Heaven's eternal morrow.
Not down, but up, the hill with footsteps slow,
I journey; and behold, a glory rises
In the grey East, which makes my cheek to glow,
And with strange beauty my dim eye surprises;
Joy dawns; the veil rends; and I see—I see
The Face of Him who opened Heaven for me!
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