Poem by Emma Frances Bevan 1899
I go from grief and sighing, the valley and the clod, To join the chosen people in the palaces of God. There sounds no cry of battle, amidst the shadowing palms, But the mighty son of victory, and glorious golden psalms. The army of the conquerors, a palm in every hand, In robes of state and splendor, in rest eternal stand, Those marriage robes of glory, the righteousness of God.
No Comment