“The memory of the just is blessed.”
WHY mourn like a dove of the valley?
Why rest by the silent tomb?
What ails thee that thy tears o’erflow
And thy face is dark with gloom?
Has famine come upon thy land,
Or pestilence swept thy coast,
Or the cruel wave covered the brave
That were thy country’s boast?
Ah, no; but a beloved saint is called
Who long Zionward set her face,
A fruitful tree of righteousness
That was planted by His grace.
We feel our, Strath now desolate;
The ripe sheaf is gathered home,
Like a shock of corn in its season,
When garnered in full bloom.
Her heart went toward the faithful
Who gave up their earthly all
For sake of truth and conscience,
That the banner might not fall,
But be faithfully unfurled,
Christ’s crown-rights to maintain,
To preserve His blessed gospel,
That His Word supreme might reign.
She gave no quarter to the foe,
Nor ear to the uncertain sound,
Nor flinched to compromise with truth,
For His courts are holy ground.
Nor would she hear “another gospel”
That pleased the spirit of the age;
Hers was “the gospel of the kingdom,”
Changeless on the sacred page.
Her welcome, warm to strangers!
Ah! ’twas better felt than told;
For her soul yearned for the lost sheep
To be gathered to the fold;
And her tender love was to the lambs
Who heard the Shepherd’s voice,
And followed Christ, their portion,
Their Saviour, and their choice.
The blessing of the perishing
Oft came on the much-loved dead;
Yet, saint-like, she ascribed the glory
To Christ, her heavenly Head.
For in love to her Redeemer
And His cause, she did excel;
The glory that’s prepared for those,
No tongue or pen can tell!
The fellowship of saints on earth
Is a treasure of wealth untold,
More precious far than rubies;
More excellent than gold.
But she looked for the better country
For which her longing soul did pine;
And those who suffer with Christ here,
Shall with Him in glory shine.
D. T.