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THE God I see is one of love; so infinitely great That we as sands on life's seashore can scarce ap- proach the gate Of Wisdom, His sweet Book of Life, unwritten much may be, But deep-inscribed within our hearts, for all Eternity. The Soul, that spark of lasting life, through strange trans- mitting Power Unfolds, develops light and thought, in Nature's summer bower, And while we fail to fully grasp the fruitage He has brought, Of buds of spring, about our path, we verily know naught. As time rolls on, a gleam is thrown along the road of gloom; More Faith, more Hope, more Light, toward the home of “Pretty-Soon.” And He has given o'er to man, through impress on the brain The implement which should disclose what we would glad attain. The Phonograph, the strange, strange voice, which repro- duces o'er Our voice, though mute our tongues may be; our souls on distant shore; This only seems fair evidence, of what the Hand Divine May point us to, or lead us through, down corridors of time. |
