T. S. M.
Thou knewest not where to lay Thy head;
When over the twilight sea
The birds of the mountains homeward sped,
There was no home for Thee.
But God had prepared for the weary feet
A home when the toil was past,
And there, in His chamber still and sweet,
O Lord, Thou shouldst rest at last.
A Home to be won by deadly fight,
The price to be paid in blood --
Oh where is that palace of fair delight,
That glorious Home of God?
The City that hath foundations shone
To Abram's eyes of old,
And we in our pilgrimage days look on
To the towers of crystal gold.
And Thou, an outcast in Abram's land,
On the midnight mountains lone,
Didst look to the Home where Thy feet should stand
When the long day's work was done.
O mystery of God's wondrous grace
That at last that rest should be
That secret chamber, that holy place,
The soul Thou hast won for Thee.