COME UNTO ME.
I HEAR the low voice call that bids me come,— Me, even me, with all my grief oppressed, With sins that burden my unquiet breast, And in my heart the longing that is dumb, Yet beats forever, like a muffled drum, For all delights whereof I, dispossessed, Pine and repine, and find nor peace nor rest This side the haven where He bids me come.
He bids me come, and lay my sorrows down, And have my sins washed white by His dear grace; He smiles—what matter, then, though all men frown? Naught can assail me, held in His embrace; And if His welcome home the end may crown, Shall I not hasten to that heavenly place?