"In my Father's house are many mansions."—John 14:2.
In solitary gloom she sat and read,
And bitter tears of pity dimmed the line:
With all those mansions in the realm of Love
Is no place mine?
No shelter, and no pillowed ease to lend
Repose to my tired head at eventide,
No table spread, no kindly hand to serve,
Or guard or guide?
Deeper the gloom, and faster fell the tears,
Till in the stillness, like a melody,
She heard His voice: Daughter, hast thou prepared
A place for me?
Hast thou thy mansion ready, filled with joy,
Its windows wide, its welcoming doors apart?
Where dost thou think Love's dwelling place is reared
But in thy heart?
And when thy hand goes out to lift the weary,
And thy bread's shared with those who drink grief's cup,
Thy courage high, in thee the Father's mansion
Is rising up.
There have I furnished solace for the desolate,
And there is peace, forgiveness of sin;
Hast thou this shelter ready where my little ones
May enter in?
Founded in loveliness, with mercy gardened,
And garrisoned with Christ's tranquillity,
There are no other mansions save the image
Love builds in thee.
