Where the sun meets no cloud in his path through the sky,
Where the rose-wreath of joy is immortal in bloom,
And pours on the gale a celestial perfume;
Where ethereal melodies steal through the soul,
And the full tide of rapture is free from control.
Oh, we’ve nothing to do in a bleak world like this,
But to toil for a home in that haven of bliss.
1822. E. P. K.
(Added in 11th mo., 1861.)
“Nay, toil not,” saith Jesus, “but come unto Me;”