Beyond This Vale Of Tears There Is

The Dove, On Silver Pinions, Winged Her Peaceful Way.

There Is A Flower, A Little Flower With Silver Crest And Golden Eye, That Welcomes Every Changing Hour, And Weathers Every Sky.

Prayer Is The Soul's Sincere Desire, Uttered Or Unexpressed, The Motion Of A Hidden Fire That Trembles In The Breast. Prayer Is The Burden Of A Sigh, The Falling Of A Tear, The Upward Glancing Of An Eye When None But God Is Near.

Nature's Prime Favourites Were The Pelicans; High-fed, Long-lived, And Sociable And Free.

Yet Nightly Pitch My Moving Tent, A Day's March Nearer Home.