Classic Poem

They only see the snow heaped on the moor,
The bare trees shivering in the winter's breath,
The icy drift that sifteth through the door,
Me, old and poor, waiting the call of death.

They think my cot is bare and comfortless,
With broken roof and paper-mended pane,
They see but poverty and loneliness,
And think in pity that my death were gain.

They know not, Master, that Thou art so near,
Thou holdest me, I lean upon Thy might,
I know Thy voice, Thy whisperings I hear,
I stay beneath Thy shadow with delight.

The royal purple of Thy garment died,
From Bozrah, is spread over even me,
All my unworthiness, my want I hide
Under Thy princely vesture shelteringly.

Thy hand is underneath my weary head,
Thy strong right hand that saved me long ago;
I'm cradled in Thy arms and comforted,
What more have I to do with want or woe.

What more indeed! so sheltered, so embraced,
For ever Thou art mine and I am Thine,
Thy banner's love, Thy fruit sweet to my taste,
Thou givest to my lips the Kingdom's wine.

How sweetly solemn is this awful place!
Where all of earth fades out and vanishes,
I cannot fear while I behold Thy face,
My help, my friend, the Lord my righteousness.

I do not feel the waters cold and deep,
Waters to swim in through whose waves I come,
The love that holds me up is strong to keep,
'Tis but a little way from this to home.

My sight grows dim, my one Redeemer, Lord,
Bring nearer still the brightness of Thy face,
I hear Thy voice, assuring is Thy word,
Close to Thy heart is my abiding place.

We're nearing home — forever all is well,
In through the agate windows I can see
The place prepared — glory ineffable,
To which in royal love Thou leadest me.