He dreads to see God's face, for though the pure
Beholding him are blest,
Yet in his sight no evil can endure;
And still with fear oppressed
He looks within and cries, "Who can be sure?"
The world beyond is strange; the golden streets,
The palaces so fair,
The seraphs singing in the shining seats,
The glory everywhere,--
And to his soul he solemnly repeats
The visions of the Book. "Alas!" he cries,
"That world is all too grand;
Among those splendors and those majesties
I would not dare to stand;
For me a lowlier heaven would well suffice!"
Yet, faithful in his lot this saint has stood
Through service and through pain;
The Lord Christ he has followed, doing good;
Sure, dying must be gain
To one who living hath done what he could.
The light is fading in the tired eyes,
The weary race is run;
Not as the victor that doth seize the prize.
But as the fainting one,
He nears the verge of the eternities.
And now the end has come, and now he sees
The happy, happy shore;
O fearful, and faint, distrustful soul, are these
The things thou fearedst before--
The awful majesties that spoiled thy peace?
This land is home; no stranger art thou here;
Sweet and familiar words
From voices silent long salute thine ear;
And winds and songs of birds,
And bees and blooms and sweet perfumes are near.
The seraphs--they are men of kindly mien;
The gems and robes--but signs
Of minds all radiant and of hearts washed clean;
The glory--such as shines
Wherever faith or hope or love is seen.
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