Classic Poem

Thy path, like most by mortal trod,
Will have its thorns and flowers,
Its stony steps, its velvet sod,
Its sunshine and its showers.

Through smooth and rough, o'er flower and thorn,
Beneath whatever sky,
Still bear thee as a being born
For immortality!

And be thy choicest treasure stored
Where Faith may hold the key;
For “where our treasure is” our Lord
Hath said—“The heart shall be.”