Poem March 9, 1907 Issue

[Written for the Sentinel.]

A HYMN

CHARLES A. STEBBINS

Like as the early autumn breeze
Goes chanting through the hilltop trees
Its joy and happiness,
Let me my voice, like David, raise
In psalms of thanks and grateful praise,
And Thy great goodness bless.

Like as the distant casement-pane
Reflects the golden sun, I fain
Would glow more holy-wise;
And let my heart an alter be,
Where pure and perfect thoughts of Thee,
Like incense, endless rise.

Give me to feel Thy presence near,
To know the nothingness of fear,
The faith that never dies;
And thus approach Thee, more and more.
Until the last remaining door
Swings into Paradise.

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March 9, 1907
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