Into the Presence of his Lord,
As weary pilgrim seeks his rest,
Or bird that flutters to its nest
When shadows of the night have lowered,

He now hath passed.
We are alone With memories-the vacant chair!
His life of labor, toil and care
Exchanged for peace, where he has gone.

The world still rushes madly on,
On pleasure bent, toward its goal;
And little heeds that one more soul
Is with the Lord-his life's work done.

Oh, blissful change! That home on high!
Within the Father's house to dwell!
Oh, perfect peace, where all is well,
No groans of earth, or bitter cry.

Our life, like some short Autumn day,
So soon declines toward its close;
But oh, the sense of sweet repose
In Christ, our Lord, the living Way.

The sprinkled blood before the throne
Still points to our eternal rest,
Though troubled waves leap to their crest,
And shadows o'er our path be thrown.

Yet He can never us forsake;
Though skies be dark and days be drear,
Our Saviour-God stands ever near,
Who gave His life for our poor sake.

Perchance before another day
Has dawned, our Lord, our Life, may come,
And call us to Himself-and Home,
To dwell in Love's unclouded ray.

We sorrow; we are human still;
We miss him whom no more we see,
But, knowing that he lives in Thee,
We are content-it is Thy will!
Portland, Oregon – John Wilson