THE little while! how nearly gone,
And thee 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 forever 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 fullness 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.