Hope

IN the hours of hope, in the hours of gloom,
In the hours of seed, in the hours of bloom
In the hours of mirth, in the hours of woe,
Is a deeper hour in the surging flow.

There is chiseled here in a passing way
Our rises and falls, from day to day,
And by-and-by on our headstone slabs
Will appear the real and our self-made ads.

But away beyond this mortal glow,
Where the record is true, and no earthly show,
Will be a record chiseled deep
On the Rock of Time, on the Sublime Steep.

Thus on and up in a lasting day,
With the crags hewn out which impede our way --
When the Hand Divine shall gently lift
The heavy soul, and the rock shall rift.

But days and months and years shall tell
Of the roads of gloom where the tear-drops fell,
And for every tear and every sigh
There's a recompense, in the by-and-by.

Let us toil along in the burning sun,
Or yet in the cold, if old or young,

With a Higher Hope for a Better Land,
And a Guiding Star, through a Gentle Hand.