Thy Father's Hand

Oh, soul, I said, thy boding murmurs cease―

Though sorrow bind thee as a funeral pall,

Thy Father's Hand is guiding thee through all,

His Love will bring a true and perfect peace.

―By a Spirit

Eternal life is the gift to all.

I SLEEP not, dear mother, where daisies bloom,
And wild birds warble their hymns of praise;
Where the stars look down through the silent gloom,
And the cypress nods to the passing breeze.

No, no; I am living beyond the tomb,
Where the shadows of time no longer fall,
Where the angel Death has never come,
For eternal life is the gift to all.

Yet I have not left you; I am not dead,
Though a voice is missed from the trio band―

Though tenantless stands my little bed,
And you miss the clasp of Birdie's hand.

I am living and loving and waiting for you
In my beautiful home on the other side,
Where legions of angels, with fond hearts and true,
Are waiting for loved ones to cross the tide.

Through the long, dreary hours of sadness and pain,
When your brow with the tempest of fever was tossed,
Your Birdie was with you; yes, with you again;
Though the world in its blindness says Birdie is lost.

―Spirit) nna Cora Wilson