  From whence comes all this weariness of heart, This anxious longing for a place of rest, These greedy cravings for the silent tomb, Where all in deep forgetfulness repose? Surely man was not made to while away His costly time in brooding over wrongs And disappointments meeting him through life, As if there were no rays of sunshine left To gladden him along his way to Heaven. His life is not an empty, idle dream, But dread reality, composed of facts, Whose fruits will follow with their just rewards. He has an object which to live for here; And if that object be to live for God, And for the good of those who him surround, He may consider his a life well spent. Then let us follow firmly duty’s call With willing hearts, forgetful of the past,— Still trusting in the strength and love of God, Still rising higher heavenward to our goal, Till we at last that longed for Home attain, And rest upon the bosom of our God. Rev. F. J. Ochse. [Image of decorative bar not available.] |
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