Page:Zinzendorff and Other Poems.pdf/191

Rh 

Yet not a Mother's care Who for her infant sighs, When absence shuts it from her arms Or sickness dims its eye,

Transcends the love divine, The welcome full and free, With which the glorious King of Heaven Will stretch his arms to thee,

When thou with contrite tear Shalt wait within his walls, Imploring but the broken bread That from his table falls.

No more his mansion shun, No more distrust his grace, Turn from the orphanage of earth And find a Sire's embrace.

 

, this is holy ground, Lay me to slumber here, The cherish'd thoughts of early days, Have made this spot most dear,— Fast by the hallow'd church Where first I learned to pray In faith, and penitence and peace,— Make ye my bed of clay. 