THE DYING INDIAN’S DREAM

Let every tongue

The shout prolong!

Sound the Redeemer’s praise, In loudest, loftiest lays!

To Him who bought him With His precious blood;

To Him who brought him

To this bright Abode

Of perfect blessedness,

And everlasting peace,

“ The Bosom of his Father and his God."

VII.

“ Oh, I shall surely reach that place, Through matchless grace!

One moment more below

I linger, then I go,

From this dark world of woe, Where floods of sorrow overflow, To those bright beauteous Plains, Where Glory everlasting reigns; That Land of heavenly Rest, Among the Pure and Blest, Where Jesus is—where I

Shall never sin again or sigh;— In that bright world on high, There are no stains

Of sin, and no remains

Of sorrow, sighs, and pains;

But pure and perfect happiness, And royal robes of heavenly dress, I shall eternally posses;

Where holiness and peace

Never to cease,

But ever to increase,