[Written for the Sentinel]

Lay of Truth

"Come unto me," O tired and weary one.
The way is long down error's thorny road;
From dawn of day to dark of setting sun,
Heavy the load.

Cruel the yoke that galls the flesh of those
Who drag their useless burdens,—fear and grief;
Sharp is the whip, and heavy are the blows
Of false belief.

"Ye shall find rest," with Truth to gently lead;
The yoke is easy and the burden small.
Peace, troubled heart, ye need not strive or plead,
Love giveth all.

Truth is a covert from the tempest's roar,
As flowing river in a parched plain;
A hiding-place from woe, an open door
From sin and pain.

Truth is our Shepherd, and He leads His flock
In pleasant pastures with a gentle hand;
Truth gives the shadow of a mighty rock
In desert land.

How sweet the pleading call, "Come unto me"!
I hear the pitying voice, the kind behest.
Can I refuse the truth that maketh free,
That giveth rest?

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