A PILGRIM'S SONG.

A FEW more years shall roll,

A few more seasons come;

And we shall be with those that rest, Asleep within the tomb.

Then, O my Lord, prepare

My soul for that great day;
O wash me in thy precious blood,
And take my sins away.

A few more suns shall set

O'er these dark hills of time;

And we shall be where suns are not, A far serener clime.

Then, O my Lord, prepare

My soul for that blest day;

O wash me in thy precious blood,
And take my sins away.

A few more storms shall beat

On this wild rocky shore;

A PILGRIM'S SONG.

And we shall be where tempests cease,

And surges swell no more.
Then, O my Lord, prepare

My soul for that calm day;
O wash me in thy precious blood,
And take my sins away.

A few more struggles here,
A few more partings o'er,

A few more toils, a few more tears,
And we shall weep no more.

Then, O my Lord, prepare

My soul for that blest day;
O wash me in thy precious blood,
And take my sins away.

A few more Sabbaths here

Shall cheer us on our way;

And we shall reach the endless rest,
The eternal Sabbath-day.*

* The old Latin hymn expresses this well:

"Illic nec sabbato

Succedit sabbatum,

Perpes lætitia

Sabbatizantium.

113

114

A PILGRIM'S SONG.

Then, O my Lord, prepare

My soul for that sweet day;
O wash me in thy precious blood,
And take my sins away.

'Tis but a little while

And He shall come again,

Who died that we might live, who lives
That we with Him may reign.

Then, O my Lord, prepare

My soul for that glad day;

O wash me in thy precious blood,

And take my sins away.

QUIS SEPARABIT

'Tis thus they press the hand and part,
Thus have they bid farewell again;
Yet still they commune, heart with heart,
Linked by a never-broken chain.

Still one in life and one in death,
One in their hope of rest above;
One in their joy, their trust, their faith,
One in each other's faithful love.

Yet must they part, and parting, weep; What else has earth for them in store?

These farewell pangs, how sharp and deep, These farewell words, how sad and sore!

Yet shall they meet again in peace,
To sing the song of festal joy,

Where none shall bid their gladness cease,
And none their fellowship destroy.

116

QUIS SEPARABIT.

Where none shall beckon them away,

.*

Nor bid their festival be done ;*
Their meeting-time the eternal day,

Their meeting-place the eternal throne.

There, hand in hand, firm linked at last,
And, heart to heart, enfolded all,
They'll smile upon the troubled past,
And wonder why they wept at all.

Then let them press the hand and part,
The dearly loved, the fondly loving,
Still, still in spirit and in heart,

The undivided, unremoving.

* "Ibi festivitas sine fine."-Augustine.