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::R5477 : page 174::

ALMOST HOME

My frail barque rudely tosses on the sea,
In terror, Lord, I feebly cry to Thee,
“My faith increase, as darker grows the night,
Oh, make me strong in Thee and in Thy might!”
He hears my prayer, He answers, with a smile,
“We’re almost home, have faith a little while!”

Nor sun, nor moon, nor any star is seen,
Not e’en the faintest rift of blue between;
The chilling waters deeper, darker flow,
The storm-clouds lower, the winds more wildly blow—
Yet hark! Above the strife His voice, so mild,
“Be brave, be strong, we’re almost home, My child!”

* * *

Do eager hands lie folded on thy breast,
And hath the Lord of Harvest bid thee rest?
Dost see the happy laborers go by,
Nor canst refrain a tear or longing sigh?
Be calm, poor heart, and sink into His will—
“We’re almost home, dear child, lean harder still!”

April 19, 1914. GERTRUDE W. SEIBERT.

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— June 1, 1914 —