To-day we sow once more,
The form of one now sleeping,
Whose pilgrimage is o’er.
Ah! death but safely lands him
Where we too would attain;
Our Father’s voice demands him,
And death to him is gain.
He has what we were wanting,
He sees what we believe;
The sins on earth so haunting
Have there no power to grieve:
Safe in his Saviour’s keeping,
Who sent him calm release,-
‘Tis only we are weeping,-
He dwells in perfect peace.
The crown of life he weareth,
He bears the shining palm,
The “Holy, holy,” shareth,
And joins the angels’ psalm;
But we, poor pilgrims, wander
Still through this land of woe
Till we shall meet him yonder,
And all his joy shall know.
Carl J. P. Spitta Translated by Miss C. Winkworth
Come, said Jesus’ sacred voice
Come, and make My paths your choice;
I will guide you to your home,
Weary pilgrim, hither come!
Thou who, homeless, sole, forlorn,
Long hast borne the proud world’s scorn,
Long hast roamed the barren waste,
Weary pilgrim, hither haste.
Ye who, tossed on beds of pain,
Seek for ease, but seek in vain;
Ye, by fiercer anguish torn,
In remorse for guilt who mourn;-
Hither come! for here is found
Balm that flows for every wound,
Peace that ever shall endure,
Rest eternal, sacred, sure.
Ann L. Barbauld
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