In his measure he has striven, suffering Lord! to love like Thee;
Thou the vine—thy friends the branches—is he not a branch of Thine,
Though some dregs from earthly vintage have defiled the heavenly wine?
Now his tendrils lie unclaspéd, bruised and prostrate on the sod,—
Take him to thine upper garden, where the husbandman is God!
“OLD JOHN BROWN.”
BY REV. E. H. SEARS.
Not any spot six feet by two
Will hold a man like thee;