By:
Edited By Heymen Wreford
Written by a Christian Lady of Ninety-Four Years
I hail once more my natal day,
Still in my tenement of clay,
With many favours blest;
Now He who placed the structure here,
Can prop it up another year,
If He should think it best.
Long hath it stood through winds and rains,
And braved life’s fearful hurricanes,
While many a stronger fell;
The reason why we cannot see,
But what to us seems mystery,
The Builder knows full well.
But now ‘tis weather-worn and old,
The summer’s heat and winter’s cold,
Pierce through the walls and roof.
‘Tis like a garment so worn out,
To mend there seems no whereabout,
So gone is warp and woof.
The tottering pillars are all weak,
The poor old rusty hinges creak,
The windows too are dim;
These slight discomforts we’ll let pass,
For looking darkly through a glass,
We catch a hopeful gleam.
Nature and Scripture tell us all,
This withered frame ere long must fall,
When, where, or how’s unknown;
We’ll leave that to the Architect,
And trust His wisdom to direct
The taking of it down.
And when you see it prostrate lie,
Let not sad tears bedim your eye,
The tenant is not here;
But just beyond time’s little space,
She finds with Christ a resting-place,
No more to date her year.
And though she walks with you no more,
The world will move just as before,
‘Tis meet it should be so;
Let each his house in order set,
That he may leave without regret,
Whenever called to go.