Classic Poem

We walk by sense, we walk by sight,
A veil is on our eyes,
It hides the spirit world of light,
That all around us lies.

It mocks the mourner's eager ken,
The mother's yearning fond,
But children pure, and childlike men,
Can sometimes see beyond.

“To be with Christ is better,” sigh'd
The Apostle worn and proved;
“Come, Lord, O quickly come!” he cried,
The man that Jesus loved.

And still athwart the cloud unroll'd
Some gleams to them are given,
Whose angels evermore behold
The Father's face in Heaven.

And still the same fair home they paint,
By the same hope beguiled,—
So much is childlike in the Saint,
And saintlike in the child.

And he, with Christ's redeeming sign
Scarce dried upon his face,
A Lamb just offer'd at the shrine,
Still wrapt in his embrace,

With prescience of another clime,
That scarce another seems,
So fair to him the things of Time,
So pure are all his dreams,

He passes in with folded hands,
A prayer on his last breath,
He sees no strait between the lands,
Nor knows that this is death,

But thinks beyond the sun and stars,
Beyond where eye can ken,
His little hand shall lift the bars
And take his loved ones in.

So let him lie, the sweet hands laid
Unfolded on his breast,
The “tender Shepherd” as he pray'd,
Has rock'd His lamb to rest.