Mrs. Pennefather

NOT now, my child, a little more rough tossing,

A little longer on the billows’ foam;

A few more journeyings in the desert darkness,

And then, the sunshine of thy Father’s Home!


Not now; for I have wanderers in the distance,

And thou must call them in with patient love;

Not now, for I have sheep upon the mountains,

And thou must follow them where’er they rove.


Not now; for I have loved ones sad and weary;

Wilt thou not cheer them with a kindly smile?

Sick ones, who need thee in their lonely sorrow;

Wilt thou not tend them yet a little while?


Not now, for wounded hearts are sorely bleeding,

And thou must teach those widowed hearts to sing:

Not now; for orphans’ tears are quickly falling,

They must be gathered ’neath some sheltering wing.


Go, with the name of Jesus, to the dying,

And speak that Name in all its living power;

Why should thy fainting heart grow chill and weary?

Canst thou not watch with Me one little hour?


One little hour! and then the glorious crowning,

The golden harp-strings, and the victor’s palm;

One little hour! and then the hallelujah!

Eternity’s long, deep, thanksgiving psalm!


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