"Faith" by John Rollin Ridge
Are not from the regions where Cherubim sing,
Or glory refulgent encircles the throne
Of Him, the Almighty, th' Eternal, the One.
Though there is the home of my ultimate rest,
A Paradise endless, surpassingly blest,
Yet Earth was my birth-place, my mission is here,
And dear is that birth-place, that mission is dear,
'Tis true I was born in the wisdom of God,
And though of the earth not akin to the sod,
'Tis mine to give comfort when sadness doth reign,
And draw from the bosom the sting of its pain;
For hope to the hopeless I whispering send,
And show the despondent a heavenly friend.
Oh sad was the world ere my spirit began,
To give forth its balm and its fragrance to man,
For wild was the trouble and darksome the grief
Which had in kind Heaven no trust or belief.
'Tis Faith in the heart that giveth to life
The peace of the home-hearth, the joys of the wife,
'Tis Faith entrances with gladness the lover,
Who trusts his idol, knows nothing above her,
And sees her grow beautiful, ever and ever.
'Tis Faith in our fellows, their goodness and truth
That makes the chief glory of childhood and youth;
And cursed is the soul with a withering ban
That has lived till it trusteth no longer in Man.
The gifts that I bring thee, so still must I say,
Are not the far gems that bediamond the way
Where star-crowned immortals beatified stray.
They’re relics I've gathered along the dim shore
Of life and of time—these are all—nothing more.
This fragment that's rusted, 'tis all that remains
Of the heroes' and martyrs' rude fetters and chains;
This ring, 'twas the sign, on a hand that is dust,
Of love that was sacred, and holiest trust;
These pearls that so glisten like crystalline spheres,
They are the congealment of penitent tears.
Oh skeptic, sore-hearted, accept them I pray,
For healing is in them, and blessing for aye.