His hand at last! By his own fingers writ, I catch my name upon the wayworn sheet: His hand—oh, reach it to me quick! And yet, Scarce can I hold, so fast my pulses beat. O feast of soul! O banquet richly spread! O passion-lettered scroll from o’er the sea! Like a fresh burst of life to one long dead, Joy, strength, and bright content come back with thee, Long prayed and waited for through months so drear; Each day methought my waiting heart must break; Why is it that our loved ones grow more dear The more we suffer for their sweetest sake? His hand at last! each simple word aglow With truthful tenderness and promise sweet. Now to my daily tasks I ’ll singing go, Fed by the music of this wayworn sheet.
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Sub Title:
VII. Love’s Power