 | New songs of innocence |  |
36
THE LITTLE PILGRIM.
Over against our cottage home
Rises calm a mountain-dome,
On whose green and rounded crest
Arks of cloud will often rest.
Bare, it is an altar solely;
Veiled, a sanctuary holy;
And when morning mists arise—
Lo, the smoke of sacrifice!
Rises calm a mountain-dome,
On whose green and rounded crest
Arks of cloud will often rest.
Bare, it is an altar solely;
Veiled, a sanctuary holy;
And when morning mists arise—
Lo, the smoke of sacrifice!
Willie, my poet three years old,
Saw the sun set there in gold;
Long he looked, his large blue eyes
Catching the glow of Paradise.
‘Mother,’ he said, ‘I say in my prayer,
Our Father in heaven—now heaven is there!
Give me my staff; ere the gold grows dim
I will go up the hill to Him!’
Saw the sun set there in gold;
Long he looked, his large blue eyes
Catching the glow of Paradise.
‘Mother,’ he said, ‘I say in my prayer,
Our Father in heaven—now heaven is there!
Give me my staff; ere the gold grows dim
I will go up the hill to Him!’
Dear little pilgrim, staff in hand,
Journey we all to the promised land!
Many a valley, many a hill,
Lengthen our way with good and ill.
O may He who sits above
Prosper our journey with His love,
Drawing us through the infinite vast
Safely into His arms at last!
Journey we all to the promised land!
Many a valley, many a hill,
Lengthen our way with good and ill.
O may He who sits above
Prosper our journey with His love,
Drawing us through the infinite vast
Safely into His arms at last!
| New songs of innocence | |