The Change

I love yon pale blue sky; it is the floor

Of that glad home where I shall short­ly be;

A home from which I shall go out no more;

From toil and grief and van­ity set free.

I gaze up­on yon ev­er­last­ing arch

Up which the bright stars wan­der

as they shine;

And as I mark them in their night­ly march

I think how soon that jour­ney shall be mine!

Yon sil­ver drift of si­lent cloud

far up

In the still heav’n—through you my path­way lies:

Yon rug­ged mount­ain peak—how soon your top

Shall I be­hold be­neath me

as I rise!

Not many more of life’s slow pac­ing hours

Shaded with sor­row’s me­lan­cho­ly hue—

Oh

what a glad as­cend­ing shall be ours

Oh

what a path­way up yon star­ry blue!

A jour­ney like Eli­jah’s

swift and bright

Caught gent­ly up­ward to an ear­ly crown

In Heav­en’s own cha­ri­ot of all-blaz­ing light

With death un­tast­ed and the grave un­known.