A Remnant

Sons of our Mother! such the indignant strain
Might haply strike, this hour, a pastor's ear,
Purged to discern, for once, the aerial train
Of heavenly sentinels yet lingering here;
And what if, blending with the chant austere,
A soft inviting note attune the close?
" We go; — but faithful hearts will find us near,
Who cling beside their Mother in her woes,
Who love the Rites that erst their fathers lov'd,
Nor tire of David's Hymn, and Jesus' Prayer: —
Their quiet Altars, wheresoe'er remov'd,
Shall clear with incense sweet the unholy air;
In persecution safe, in scorn approv'd,
Angels, and He who rules them, will be there. "
Rate this poem: 

Become a Patron!

Reviews

No reviews yet.