Hope.

A poem by Freeman Edwin Miller

When man from pure perfection fell,
And bathed his life in grief and woe,
His angel heart had overthrow
From all the joys he loved so well,
And only Hope of all the host
Remained to comfort him when lost.

And when the other passions throw
Their phantoms in the arms of death,
And pour their last remaining breath
Within the dismal haunts of woe,
Then Hope alone of all remains
To soothe our sorrows and our pains.

Hope makes the fearful millions brave,
The helpless and the weary strong,
Gives courage to the fainting throng
And whispers freedom to the slave,
And unto each, where'er he lives,
Unceasing cause to struggle gives.

In heavy hours of ghostly gloom
When raging billows dash and beat
Around the weak and weary feet
Which tremble on the yawning tomb,
The harp of Hope divinely sings
Exalted songs of better things.

It lifts the gaze of mortal eyes
Above the desert and the dearth,
Above the barren fields of earth,
Unto the promise of the skies,
And to the last expiring breath
Gives comfort in the hour of death.

O, sacred light of human life,
Eternal star of Heaven's love,
Thy brightness ever shines above
The darkest hours of woe and strife,
To raise our souls above the sod
Into the holy home of God!