 | Lyra Pastoralis |  |
The Tides
Up the long slope of this low sandy shoreAre rolled the tidal waters day by day;
Traces of wandering feet are washed away,
Relics of busy hands are seen no more.
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By punctual waves that high behests obey;
Once and again the tides assert their sway,
And o'er the sands their cleansing waters pour.
Even so, Lord, daily, hourly, o'er my soul
Sin-stained and care-worn, let Thy heavenly Grace—
A blest, atoning flood—divinely roll,
And all the footsteps of the world efface,
That like the wave-washed sand this soul of mine,
Spotless and fair, smooth and serene, may shine!
| Lyra Pastoralis | |