158
poems.
That star which erst the Magi led,
From eastern climes, their meed to pay,
O! be its gracious radiance shed,
To guide us in the heavenly way.
So may we tread the path he trod,
Though dark and thorny it may be,
His Father ours, and ours his God,
Till we in heaven our rest may see.
From eastern climes, their meed to pay,
O! be its gracious radiance shed,
To guide us in the heavenly way.
So may we tread the path he trod,
Though dark and thorny it may be,
His Father ours, and ours his God,
Till we in heaven our rest may see.
There shall we raise the exulting strain,
"Let glory be to God most High!"
Nor sin shall blight, nor error stain,
Where love's rich fountain greets the eye.
Nor can the swelling incense end;—
The theme demands eternity:
Our notes with seraph harps shall blend,
And raise the undying strain to Thee.
"Let glory be to God most High!"
Nor sin shall blight, nor error stain,
Where love's rich fountain greets the eye.
Nor can the swelling incense end;—
The theme demands eternity:
Our notes with seraph harps shall blend,
And raise the undying strain to Thee.
