Alfred H. Miles, ed. The Sacred Poets of the Nineteenth Century. 1907.
By Hymns. IV. Weary of earthSamuel John Stone (18391900)
W
I look at heaven and long to enter in,
But there no evil thing may find a home—
And yet I hear a Voice that bids me “Come.”
In the pure glory of that holy land?
Before the whiteness of that Throne appear?—
Yet there are Hands stretched out to draw me near.
Evil is ever with me day by day—
Yet on mine ears the gracious tidings fall,
“Repent, confess, thou shalt be loosed from all.”
His are the Hands stretched out to draw me near,
And His the Blood that can for all atone,
And set me faultless there before the Throne.
And made me heir of heaven, the F
And day by day, whereby my soul may live,
Gives me His grace of pardon, and will give.
The lowliest garb of penitence and prayer,
That in the F
May be the garment of Thy righteousness.
Thine all the merits, mine the great reward;
Thine the sharp thorns, so mine the golden crown,
Mine the life won, through Thine the life laid down.
Yet let my full heart what it can bestow;
Like Mary’s gift let my devotion prove,
Forgiven greatly, how I greatly love.