Gen. 8.
There was a lonely ark
That sailed o’er waters dark;
And wide around
Not one tall tree was seen,
No flower or leaf of green;
All—all were drowned.
Then a soft wing was spread,
And o’er the billows dread
A meek dove flew;
But on that shoreless tide
No living thing she spied,
To cheer her view.
There was no chirping sound
O’er that wide watery bound,
To soothe her woe;
But the cold surges spread
Their covering o’er the dead,
Now sunk below.
So to the ark she fled,
With weary, drooping head.
To seek for rest:
Christ is thy Ark, my love,
Thou art the timid dove,—
Fly to His breast.
ML 07/02/1922