Classic Poem

Under his feet a sloping bank,
Where velvet mosses lie;
Beside him, an old hedge-side oak;
Over his head the sky.
Around him honest villagers,
A humble, earnest band;
To whom he spoke of Christ, and held
A Bible in his hand.

His face was bright with holy hope,
The pilgrim's staff and stay;
His form erect, his forehead high,
His long smooth hair was grey.
His words as gentle as the rain
Upon the summer flower,
When sleep the winds, and silence fills
The honeysuckled bower.

He spoke of Adam's helpless race,
As ruin'd by the fall;
And how the promised Saviour came,
And gave His life for all.
That whosoever will, may come,
And freely share His grace;
Repent, believe, and pardon'd be,
And find in heaven a place.

Then, lifting up his solemn voice,
He in clear tones did say,
“Behold the precious Lamb of God,
Who takes our sins away.”
By this the dusky hour had come,
When twilight gently fell;
So, taking up his staff, he pass'd
Along the lonely dell.

But one there was amid that throng,
A widow, poor and old,
To whom his words more precious were
Than is the worth of gold.
Henceforth, her life was dark no more,
New visions fill'd her sight;
The friendless one had found a friend,
And Christ had given her light.

The Gospel seed, in faith and prayer,
Upon the furrow cast,
Though scatter'd by the feeblest hand,
Will surely spring at last;
And yield, though in the silent grave
The sower sleepeth still,
A harvest of immortal fruit,
The vales of heaven to fill.