by John Vance Cheney
Old Israel's readers of the stars,
I love them best. Musing, they read,
In embers of the heavenly hearth,
High truths were never learned below.
They asked not of the barren sands,
They questioned not that stretch of death;
But upward from the humble tent
They took the stairway of the hills;
Upward they climbed, bold in their trust,
To pluck the glory of the stars.
Faith falters, knowledge does not know,
Fast, one by one, the phantoms fade;
But that strange light, unwavering, lone,
Grasped from the lowered hand of God,
Abides, quenchless forevermore.
Last updated January 14, 2019