I know not what may come, ere life
Runs to its close—
Defeat or triumph, 'mid the strife,
That brings repose.
Fresh burdens may await the heart,
Now faint and worn;
And honors, deemed mine own, depart,
By others borne.
A gentle hand is holding mine
By day—by night;
And paths, untrod before, now shine
With glorious light.
Oh soul, thy lot is princely now,
And ever more—
To toil, to wait, and then to know
Him gone before—
To watch and listen till He come,
To bear me where
The loved ones are, my Heaven, my home,
My Eden fair.
I only ask to share while here
The toil divine;
To crushed and wounded ones to bear
The oil and wine;
Then 'neath the cross to lay me down
To take sweet rest;
And wake to wear the promised crown,
Forever blest.
