Charlotte Eliza Dixon Poems >>
To J. S.

WITH A LOCK OF MY HAIR.
BROTHER belov'd in CHRIST ! receive this lock,
Shorn from a head which dead in sin once slumber'd;
And as you rest secure upon our Rock,
Think that each sep'rate worthless hair is number'd.
Number'd by Him whose own celestial brow
Felt, keenly felt, the thorns that plung'd so deep,
To draw a healing balsam for our woe,
Ere the pale Sufferer sank in Death's cold sleep.
Then let us number every future day,
Dead to the world--but dear to one another;
Till our untrammell'd spirits soar away,
To meet in yonder cloud our "Elder Brother."