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To-Morrow

T. P.

Matt. xiii. 45, 46

The little while! how nearly gone,

And then my eyes shall see

How God delighted in His Son,

By all He gives to me.

Yet grace, all other grace above,

Beyond our hearts to dream—

By giving me He tells that love

By giving me to Him.

The Son, who in His bosom dwells

In God's eternal rest—

The Son to whom His Heart He tells,

With Him for ever blest—

For that beloved Son He still

A joy can keep in store;

His cup of love, so sweet, so full

Shall yet be filled the more.

There is a pearl that shines not yet

In radiance on His brow;

There is a morn for which He waits

Amidst His glory now—

The recompense for weary years,

For shame and toil and scorn;

For depths of sorrow, bitterest tears,

That fair and cloudless morn.

The gladness of His heart to be,

In that bright morning's gleam,

For this Thy hand has fashioned me,

Has made me meet for Him.

The spikenard and the cinnamon,

Trees pleasant in Thy sight,

Thy hand has planted for the Son,

In whom is Thy delight.

And oh the grace divine that we,

The trees of God, should stand

All fair in Christ's own eyes to be,

In that eternal land!

For Him those courts of crystal gold,

For Him that garden fair—

The Father's love in fulness told

By us presented there.

All faultless in the light that shines

Full from the face of God;

The witness, perfect and divine,

To Christ's most precious Blood.

His own exceeding joy to be,

His heart's delight and bliss—

Oh, well to cross the midnight sea

To such a shore as this!

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