Phoebe Carey

Sept 4, 1824 - 1871


The Life Of Trial

by Phoebe Carey

I am glad her life is over,
Glad that all her trials are past;
For her pillow was not softened
Down with roses to the last.

When sharp thorns choked up the pathway
Where she wandered sad and worn,
Never kind hand pressed them backward,
So her feet were pierced and torn.

And when life's stern course of duty
Through the fiery furnace ran,
Never saw she one beside her,
Like unto the Son of Man.

Ere the holy dew of baptism
Cooled her aching forehead's heat,
Heaviest waters of affliction
Many times had touched her feet.

Long for her deliverance waiting,
Clung she to the cross in vain;
With an agonizing birth-cry
Was her spirit born again.

And her path grew always rougher,
Wearier, wearier still she trod,
Till, through gates of awful anguish,
She went in at last to God!


The Poems Of Phoebe Carey
Copyright 187_?
New York: Hurst And Company