Classic Poem

Jesus is gone above the skies,
Where now we see him not;
And carnal objects court our eyes,
To thurst him from our thought.

He knows what wander'ing hearts we have,
Forgetful of his face;
And, to refresh our minds, he gave
Memorials of his grace.

He oft the gospel-table spreads
With his own flesh and blood;
Faith on the rich provision feeds,
And tastes the love of God.

While he is absent from our sight,
'Tis to prepare a place,
Where we may dwell in heav'nly light,
For ever near his face.