Such were the words of a dying saint, happy in the thought that however feebly her eye could discern Jesus, His eye rested on her with infinite love.
That beautiful eye! that beautiful eye!
It beams on me brightly from out the far sky;
Once closed for my sins, in the death on the tree,
It has opened forever, and opened on me.
It saw me in ruin, and wand’ring astray,
The captive of Satan, where he led the way:
The paths of the wicked were trodden with glee;
Ah! little I knew that His eye was on me.
It tracked me with mercy, no vengeance shone there;
It beamed with a love that in pity could spare;
‘Twas pity indeed, for I cannot tell why
Such love should shine forth from that beautiful eye.
But a vail on my heart, and blinded my eye,
I cast not a glance toward the far sky;
Till God, who commanded ‘mid darkness to shine
The light to illumine such dark hearts as mine,
First drew me to Jesus, and trembling with dread,
His gentle hand raised up my sin-stricken head,
To look on the Saviour, who died on the tree,
And feel the dear gaze of His eye upon me.
That beautiful eye! that beautiful eye!
Beneath its full beams forever I’d lie;
Though darkness may cover and gloom may surround,
That eye shall still follow to whither I’m bound.
When loudly shall sound the trumpet of God,
That summons the saints from beneath the dark cloud,
And calls up the living to meet in the air,
The Saviour who loved them, His glory to share,
No more through a glass, but then face to face,
I shall look on Himself! I shall tell of His grace;
Forever I’ll dwell in His home in the sky,
And live in the light of that beautiful eye.