Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/Wearied
Wearied.
Would'st thou be there to meet those long-lost faces
Watching o'er us, though unseen, from yon bright land above;
Waiting to waft us from this shore of sadness,
To that love-lighted home,—to God's own Land of Love.
Watching o'er us, though unseen, from yon bright land above;
Waiting to waft us from this shore of sadness,
To that love-lighted home,—to God's own Land of Love.
Would'st thou be there, O lonesome heart and weary,
Bereft of all but hope to meet earth's hopes in heaven;
Little hands are stretching forth in thy dreams to guide thee—-
God's gifts but tasted, and from this cold world riven.
Bereft of all but hope to meet earth's hopes in heaven;
Little hands are stretching forth in thy dreams to guide thee—-
God's gifts but tasted, and from this cold world riven.
Would'st thou be there, O fainting one, with travel;
Eyes now bedimmed with age, with tottering steps and slow;
No rest is here, and life is but a vapour,
Green pastures wait for thee beyond the reach of woe.
Eyes now bedimmed with age, with tottering steps and slow;
No rest is here, and life is but a vapour,
Green pastures wait for thee beyond the reach of woe.
Wearied and faint with grief and sorrow laden,
Life's day will soon be o'er and nightless day will shine;
Earth's joys do fade—beyond is Life eternal,
Strive, wearied one, and trust that Life is thine.
Life's day will soon be o'er and nightless day will shine;
Earth's joys do fade—beyond is Life eternal,
Strive, wearied one, and trust that Life is thine.