O'er the hushed harpstrings of the mind,
There sweeps a strain—
Low, sad, and sweet, whose measures bind
The power of pain;
And wake a white-winged angel-throng
Of thoughts, illumed
By faith, and breathed in raptured song,
With love perfumed.
Oh, in His unveiled presence grow
Life's burdens light;
We kiss the cross, and wait to know
A world more bright.
Not from this earthly scene afar,
But nearer Thee,—
Father, where Thine own children are,
And love to be;
Where o'er earth's troubled, angry sea,
We see Christ walk
And come to us, and tenderly,
And wisely talk,—
Saying: "Step safely on the Rock
Upon Life's shore,
'Gainst which the winds and waves can shock,
Oh, nevermore!
"Thy prayer, some daily good to do
To Mine, for Me,
An offering pure of love, whereto
God leadeth thee."
