Matt. xiii. 45, 46.
The
little while! how nearly gone,
And
then my eyes shall
see
How
God delighted in His Son,
By
all He gives to
me.
Yet
grace, all other grace above,
Beyond
our hearts to
dream--
By
giving me He tells that love
By
giving me to
Him.
The
Son, who in His bosom dwells
In
God's eternal
rest--
The
Son to whom His Heart He tells,
With
Him for ever
blest--
For
that beloved Son He still
A
joy can keep in
store;
His
cup of love, so sweet, so full
Shall
yet be filled the
more.
There
is a pearl that shines not yet
In
radiance on His
brow;
There
is a morn for which He waits
Amidst
His glory
now--
The
recompense for weary years,
For
shame and toil and
scorn;
For
depths of sorrow, bitterest tears,
That
fair and cloudless
morn.
The
gladness of His heart to be,
In
that bright morning's
gleam,
For
this Thy hand has fashioned me,
Has
made me meet for
Him.
The
spikenard and the cinnamon,
Trees
pleasant in Thy
sight,
Thy
hand has planted for the Son,
In
whom is Thy
delight.
And
oh the grace divine that we,
The
trees of God, should
stand
All
fair in Christ's own eyes to be,
In
that eternal
land!
For
Him those courts of crystal gold,
For
Him that garden
fair--
The
Father's love in fulness told
By
us presented
there.
All
faultless in the light that shines
Full
from the face of
God;
The
witness, perfect and divine,
To
Christ's most precious
Blood.
His
own exceeding joy to be,
His
heart's delight and
bliss--
Oh,
well to cross the midnight sea
To
such a shore as
this!
T. P.
