Aged man, with locks so hoary,
High estate dost thou possess!
They appear thy crown of glory,
In the way of righteousness.
Jewels, not of man’s preparing,
Form the shining diadem,
Thou art from thy Sovereign wearing:
God’s own finger silvered them.
Thine are honors, proved and heightened
By the gift of lengthened years;
In affliction’s furnace brightened,
Tried by cares, and washed with tears.
Like thy Master, meek and lowly,
Thou a thorny earth hast trod;
With thy breast a high and holy
Temple of the living God.
Aged saint, thy form is bending,
Sere and withered, to the tomb;
But thy spirit, upward tending,
Budded for immortal bloom.
[MY FATHER.]
“In the evening time there shall be light.”
Sacred the hour when thou, my sainted father,
Wast of thy worn-out, sinking clay undressed,
Softly, by his pale hand, who comes to gather
Time’s weary pilgrims home to joy and rest.