This little book I’d rather own

Than all the gold and gems,

That e’er in monarchs’ coffers shone—

Than all their diadems.

Nay; were the seas one chrysolite,

The earth one golden ball,

And diamonds all the stars of night,

This book were worth them all.

How baleful to Ambition’s eye

His blood-wrung spoils must gleam,

When Death’s uplifted hand is high,

His life a vanished dream!

Then hear him with his gasping breath

For one poor moment crave!

Fool! Wouldst thou stay the arm of Death,

Ask of thy gold to save!

No, no; the soul ne’er found relief

In glittering hoards of wealth,

Gems dazzle not the eye of grief,

Gold cannot purchase health;

But here a blessed balm appears

To heal the deepest woe;

And he that seeks this book in tears,

His tears shall cease to flow.

Here He who died on Calvary’s tree

Hath made that promise blest:

“Ye heavy-laden, come to me,

And I will give you rest;

A bruised reed I will not break,

Nor contrite heart despise;

My burden’s light, and all who take

My yoke, shall win the skies!”

Yes, yes; this little book is worth

All else to mortals given;

For what are all the joys of earth

Compared to joys of Heaven?

This is the guide our Father gave

To lead to realms of day—

A star whose luster gilds the grave,

The Light, the Life, the Way.