On the dark-wave of Galilee
The gloom of twilight gathers fast;
And o’er the waters heavily
Sweeps cold and drear the evening blast.
Still near the lake, with weary tread,
Lingers a form of human kind;
And on his lone, unsheltered head,
Flows the chill night-damp of the wind.
Why seeks he not a home of rest?
Why seeks he not the pillowed bed?
Beasts have their dens, the bird his nest;—
He hath not where to lay his head.
Such was the lot he freely chose,
To bless, to save, the human race;
And through his poverty there flows
A rich, full stream of heavenly grace.
|First Line:||On the dark-wave of Galilee|
|Title:||Through His Poverty Made Rich|