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AT THE GATE.
221
AT THE GATE.
AINT and trembling, tired and late, I approach the bolted gate;
And with humbleness sincere,
Knock, and crave admittance here,—
Worn with wanderings long and sore:
Open the door!
Asking neither alms nor food,
Only rest and quietude;
Hear, I pray, my humble plaint,—
Never soul so tired and faint
Craved compassion here before:
Open the door!
Only rest and quietude;
Hear, I pray, my humble plaint,—
Never soul so tired and faint
Craved compassion here before:
Open the door!
O, how soft the couch will be,
Folded down so peacefully,
Pillows fair and dainty-white,
Shaded from the tiresome light,
By dim angels hovering o'er:
Open the door!
Folded down so peacefully,
Pillows fair and dainty-white,
Shaded from the tiresome light,
By dim angels hovering o'er:
Open the door!
