How oft we stand and look across
To Paradise, and count the cost,
And to the desert turn again.
And yet how often we might eat
the fruits Of "Beulah Land," so sweet;
the spies bring back the clusters rare,
They gather in our nights of prayer;
Come, let us linger on the shore,
Until we cross the river o'er
And lose each earthly stain.
Oh, Eschol's grapes, I press thy wine,
Till all these border lands of mine
Grow sweeter, fairer as I drink;
My feet but linger on the brink
Of Jordan's bank; I soon will go
Beyond the river's narrow flow,
To heaven's emerald plain.
A LUMP OF CLAY.
ONLY a little lump of clay,
And it lies in the potter's hand;
He looks at it, he looks at the wheel,
With its burnished edge of sharpened steel,
Knows how the cruel touch will burn,
Yet will hold it down and turn and turn;