The glory and the beauty of its prime.

W. C. Bryant.

Whene’er upon the past I gaze,

Though thorns and clouds appear,

Rich gifts from Heaven demand my praise,

Gifts to the heart most dear,

The strong One’s arm, the friend above,

The fulness of Redeeming Love.

Through childhood’s hours and youthful snares,

That Arm my footsteps led,