richard raby
111
Dimly I see
The shining shores of that fair coast,
Looming beyond the unplumbed sea,
Which our old friend has crossed:
The golden strand
Of the mysterious shadow-land—
The refuge of the soul—the haven
Some call the border-land of heaven.
The shining shores of that fair coast,
Looming beyond the unplumbed sea,
Which our old friend has crossed:
The golden strand
Of the mysterious shadow-land—
The refuge of the soul—the haven
Some call the border-land of heaven.
O, mighty faith!
Illuminator of the gloom
Of that dark vale, which men call death,
But I, only a waiting-room
Where souls abide
Till they are judged, and purified;
Light of the Light Eternal, we
Triumph o'er death, possessing Thee.
Illuminator of the gloom
Of that dark vale, which men call death,
But I, only a waiting-room
Where souls abide
Till they are judged, and purified;
Light of the Light Eternal, we
Triumph o'er death, possessing Thee.
