Sad and slow was the wanderer’s tread,
As o’er the lengthen’d way she sped;
And often she cast a wishful eye
On the summer bower as she loiter’d by;
Or stopp’d to gather the brilliant flow’r
That open’d its bud to the mid-day hour.
But the flower died when she touch’d it near,
And the summer bower was not for her.
The lamb is hous’d when his game is play’d,
And the sparrow knows where her nest is made,
But the wanderer’s toil is never done,
All else have a home, but she has none.
On whatever spot might her limbs recline,
She sigh’d and whisper’d, “It is not mine.”
She sigh’d, till she heard the warning word,
“Shall it profit thee, when it slew thy Lord?
Earth bare the thorns that pierc’d his brow,
Should it yield thee unfading flowers now?
Thou wilt find, some fleeting seasons gone,
A spot of earth that is all thine own;
And none will contend for thy dark abode,
When thy spirit is gone to rejoin its God.
‘Tis dark—but thy Saviour has shared it too,
‘Twas the only home he could find below;
And his home in heaven is for thee to share,
Pass lightly on till thou join him there.”
(Caroline Fry)
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Based on Topics: God Poems, Sadness Poems, Heaven Poems, Flowers Poems, Home Poems, Summer PoemsBased on Keywords: rejoin, hous, wishful, stopp, dark-