Page:Zinzendorff and Other Poems.pdf/156

156  —That marble lip no more can bless its foes, But from the rack of martyrdom, the soul Hath risen in radiance, o'er the strife of man.

 

thee to thine own broad waters, Labor in thy native earth, Call salvation's sons and daughters From the clime that gave thee birth.

Here are pilgrim-souls benighted, Here are evils to be slain, Graces in their budding blighted, Spirits bound in error's chain.

Raise the Gospel's glorious streamer Where yon cloud-topp'd forest waves, Follower of the meek Redeemer Serve him 'mid thy fathers' graves.

 

Heaven's unerring pencil writes, on every pilgrim's breast, Its passport to Time's changeful shore, "lo, this is not your rest," Why build ye towers, ye fleeting ones? why bowers of fragrance rear! As if the self-deceiving soul might find its Eden here. 