Poem August 23, 1913 Issue

[Written for the Sentinel.]

THE PILGRIM

BESSIE RUTHERFORD TWIGG

His banner over me is Love,
And daily on my way I prove
The sureness of His leading;
A cloak invisible it is,
In which through midst of enemies
I pass unseen, unheeding.

When burning sands before me spread,
A canopy of green o'erhead,
It moveth with my going;
So every desert place is made
An Elim spot of grateful shade
And living water flowing.

When wintry winds blow keen and chill
I swiftly speed o'er dale and hill,
And sing as onward faring,
For naught unkindly, naught of cold,
Can penetrate one shelt'ring fold
That 'speaks His heavenly caring.

By night a coverlet, it lies
About me under alien skies
While I am sweetly sleeping;
I know that through His loving grace
The wild becomes a "secret place,"—
And I am in His keeping.

And so, through all my pilgrimage
Let lightnings dart or tempest rage,
I follow where He guideth,—
I journey to that city fair
Which hath foundations, over there
Where Love divine abideth.

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August 23, 1913
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