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Joy. 409
Cling to His cross ; and let thy ceaseless prayer Be, that thy grasp may fail not! and, ere long,
Thou shalt ascend to that fair Temple, where In strains ecstatic an innumerous throng
Of saints and seraphs, round the Throne above,
Proclaim for evermore, that God is Love !
Thomas Davis. 1859.
CCCLXXXII.
Shall I fear, O Earth, thy bosom ?
Shrink and faint to lay me there, Whence the fragrant lovely blossom
Springs to gladden earth and air ?
Whence the tree, the brook, the river, Soft clouds floating in the sky,
All fair things come, whispering ever Of the love Divine on high ?
Yea, whence One arose Victorious O'er the darkness of the grave,
His strong arm revealing, glorious In its might Divine to save ?
No, fair Earth ! a tender mother Thou hast been, and yet canst be :
And through Him, my Lord and Brother, Sweet shall be my rest in thee !
Thomas Davis. 1860. |
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CCCLXXXTII.
How vast the treasure we possess, How rich Thy bounty, King of grace ! This world is ours, and worlds to come; Earth is our lodge, and Heaven our home |
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