Far down the ag­es now,
Her jour­ney well nigh done,
The pil­grim Church pur­sues her way,
In haste to reach the crown.

The sto­ry of the past
Comes up be­fore her view;
How well it seems to suit her still,
Old, and yet ev­er new.

’Tis the same sto­ry still,
Of sin and wea­ri­ness,
Of grace and love still flow­ing down
To par­don and to bless.

’Tis the old sor­row still,
The bri­ar and the thorn;
And ’tis the same old so­lace yet—
The hope of com­ing morn.

No wid­er is the gate,
No broad­er is the way,
No smooth­er is the an­cient path
That leads to light and day.

No light­er is the load
Beneath whose weight we cry,
No tam­er grows the re­bel flesh,
Nor less our en­emy.

No sweet­er is the cup,
Nor less our lot of ill;
’Twas tri­bu­la­tion ag­es since,
’Tis tri­bu­la­tion still.

No green­er are the rocks,
No fresh­er flow the rills,
No ros­es in the wilds ap­pear,
No vin­es up­on the hills.

Still dark the sky above,
And sharp the de­sert air;
’Tis wide, bleak de­so­la­tion round,
And sha­dow ev­ery­where.

Dawn lin­gers on yon cliff,
But, oh, how slow to spring!
Morning still nes­tles on yon wave,
Afraid to try its wing.

No slack­er grows the fight,
No feeb­ler is the foe,
Nor less the need of ar­mor tried,
Of shield and spear and bow.

Nor less we feel the blank
Of earth’s still ab­sent king;
Whose pre­sence is of all our bliss
The ev­er­last­ing spring.

Thus on­ward still we press,
Through ev­il and through good,
Through pain and po­ver­ty and want,
Through pe­ril and through blood.

Still faith­ful to our God,
And to our cap­tain true,
We fol­low where He leads the way,
The king­dom still our view.