The man who bears one living hope,
Deep hidden in his breast,
Is eager with life's storms to cope,
And seems already blest.
When other faces lose their smiles,
His overflows with joy;
He sinks not with the crowd that toils,
But soars above annoy.
An earthly hope is his-some dream,
May be, that fills his soul;
And yet, triumphant down life's stream,
It wafts him to his goal.
Then what should hopes divine achieve
For them who such possess?
Surely the victory they should give
O'er pain, toil, and distress;
Should bear them with a holy joy
From day to day through time,
Above life's stormiest billows buoy
Towards heaven's blessed clime.
Ah, never more let us repine,
Whatever be our lot;
Nor ever let our hearts decline
In any dreary spot.
Our hopes are heavenly and eterne,
And ere another day,
May be, the hour for which we yearn
Its glories will display.
Yes, ere another day is past
Our absent Lord may come;
Fast will our bosoms beat-how fast!
With gladness overcome.
Then we shall quit the struggle here,
Forsake life's moan and woe,
And that blest hand will wipe each tear
And we no grief shall know.