Sojourning As At An Inn
( Originally Published Early 1900's )
A. D. F. RANDOLPH.
I Look abroad upon the verdant fields,
The song of birds is on the summer air ;
Within, how many a treasure something yields
To bless my life and round the edge of care ;
And yet the earth and air,
All that seems good and fair,
That still is mine or for a time hath been,
Now teach me I am but a pilgrim here,
Without a home, and dwelling at an inn.
Not always has the outook been so clear ;
There have been days when stormy gusts went by;
Nights when my wearied heart was full of fear,
And God seemed farther off than stars and sky ;
Yet then, when grief was nigh,
My soul could sometimes cry,
Out of the depths of sorrow and of sin,
That at the worst I was but pilgrim here,
With home beyond, while dwelling at an inn.
Now I complain not of this life of mine,
I less of shade have had than of the sun ;
The gracious Father, with a hand divine,
Has crowned with mercies his unworthy one;
My cup has overrun,
And I, his will undone,
Have changed his countless blessings into sin;
As I forgot I was but pilgrim here,
Homeless at best, and dwelling at an inn.
Look on me, Lord ! Have I not need to pray
That this fair world, that gives so much to me,
Serve not to lead my steps so far astray
That at the end I stand afar from thee?
Dear Lord, let this not be ;
Nay, rather let me see
Beyond this life my happiest days begin ;
And singing on my way, a pilgrim here,
Rejoice that I am dwelling at an inn.
Dear Sort of God ! by whom the world was made,
Yet homeless, had not where to lay thy head,
(Not e'en by kindred was thy body laidv
In Joseph's tomb, thou Lord of quick and dead!)
By thy example led,
Of me may it be said,
When I shall rest and perfect peace begin,
He lived as one who was a pilgrim here,
And found his home while dwelling at an inn.