On faces white and dead,
Are counted as dew drops now,
On the flowers early sown
In the gardens of Paradise,
The Lord's, and still our own.

So we'll leave the future dim,
Take the sunshine as we go,
And when we come to the brink,
Where black waves ebb and flow,
We'll trust the voice which summons,
The love that has ever kept,
To fold in his arms one taken,
To lead by His hand one left.




Adoniram.

A Legend of the Temple.



The dew was gone,
The morn was bright, the skies were fair,
The flowers smiled neath the sunbeams ray,
Tall cedars grew in beauty there.
As Adoniram took his way,
To Lebanon.