Posted by: Sherry Goodwin | February 4, 2009


Oh, glorious land of light,
Where all is fair and bright,
Arrayed in robes of white
   Thy ransomed ones appear;
Across their radiant brow,
Grief flings no shadow now,
Beneath no cross they bow,
   Nor shed one transient tear.

White robes!  not armour–no!
While militant below,
They fought with many a foe,
   And trod the tempter down;
But on life’s battle field
They left their sword and shield,
And took–their wounds all healed–
   The conqueror’s garb and crown!

White robes!  their pilgrim dress,
Like that in which we press
Earth’s path of weariness,
   Within their grave is cast;
And flowing raiment fair,
As child or bride might share
At home, sweet home, they wear;
   For all their toils are past.

White robes!  our garments here
Too oft defiled appear;
But in the heaven that’s near
   No sin its gladness taints;
And washed in streams that flow
To cleanse from guilt and woe,
Purer than winter snow
   Are the white robes of saints!

Frances Ridley Havergal from BEN BRIGHTBOOTS


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