Waiting At The Gate

by Achsa White Sprague

Written for Father Benjamin Gleason.

I wait, I wait at the golden gate,
That has opened and shut again;
My sun has set, it is growing late,
Bright angels, O, take me in!
It has opened and taken the loved ones home,
And I hear them calling my spirit to come;
I am weary, heart-weary, as onward I roam,
And would rest, -- O, take me in!

I gaze, I gaze on the golden blaze
Of the clouds in a summer even,
Till they seem to me as the sun-bright rays
That shine from the courts in Heaven;
Till they light my soul with a glorious gleam,
Till I fancy them dreams that the angels dream,
Till they fade, and the stars come forth and seem
To my spirit as answers given.

I hear, I hear from the angel sphere
A melody sweet and divine,
Till I know that the ones I love are near,
That their spirits are singing to mine;
Till I long on the billows to float far away
Beyond the dark clouds and the sun's setting ray,
To the land of the Morning -- Heaven's glorious day, --
To thy home, thou dear loved ones -- to thine!

I see, I see oft the Eden-tree,
That is drooping with fruit most rare,
And I know it is waiting, ah, waiting for me,
In its richness and splendor to share;
And my spirit, half-fainting, looks up and is strong,
For I hear the rich tone of the Seraphim's song
That murmurs in sweetness, Not long, oh, not long
Shalt thou linger in mournfulness there!

Then I'll wait, I'll wait at the golden gate,
Till it opens and shuts again;
Though my sun is set, though 'tis growing late,
I will wait till they take me in; For I know the bright hour is coming to me,
When my spirit will spring from its bondage free,
Through the golden gate I will pass to thee,
Loved ones, and be taken in!

Oswego, August 9, 1859.