With this blest hope so sure and bright
All seasons beam with golden light,
In winter's storm and summer's heat
The pure in heart have joys complete;
And when the close of life appears,
Their pleasures ripen with his years—
Unlike the sinner, dark and cold
Who graceless, godless, hopeless, old,
Sits lowly down in autumn's vale,
His life all fruitless to bewail.