Book 3 — AT THE WATER’S EDGE.

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BY PHŒBE CAREY.

———

There are little innocent ones,

And their love is wondrous strong,

Clinging about her neck,

But they may not keep her long.

Father, give her strength

To loosen their grasp apart,

And to fold her empty hands

Calmly over her heart.

And if the mists of doubt

Fearfully rise and climb

Up from that river that rolls

Close by the shore of time;

Suddenly rend it away,

Holy and Merciful One,

As the veil of the temple was rent,

When the mission of Christ was done.

So she can see the clime

Where the jasper walls begin,

And the pearl-gates, half unclosed,

Ready to shut her in.

So she can see the saints,

As they beckon with shining hand,

Leaning over the towers,

Waiting to see her land.

Saviour, we wait thy aid,

For our human aid were vain;

We have gone to the water’s edge,

And must turn to the world again.

For she stands where the waves of death

Fearfully surge and beat,

And the rock of the shore of life

Is shelving under her feet.