n a week of each other, after a married life of forty-seven
years, and each at the age of seventy-five.

Ever faithful to the cause of their Master, they died as they had
lived--in triumphant faith.

Hand in hand, together they trod
Through years twoscore and seven;
Their only staff was the Word of God,
Their path was the way to heaven.

Hand in hand, e'er the burning sun
Had drunk up the morning dew,
They started their earthly journey to run,
While the heavens were fair and blue.

But life's path lies not through a grassy dell,
In the cool of the morning's shade;
There are scorching sands, and torrents that swell,
As well as the flowery glade.

There are crags to climb in the mountains fast,
There are gorges, and canyons deep,
And the blinding snow, and the wintry blast
Must over the landscape sweep.

And the shoulders must bear a wearisome load,
Whether o'er mountain or moor,
Or through forest, or dusty highway, lay the road,
Or the feet be bleeding and sore.

But hand in hand we see them still,
When the sun had drunk up the dew;
They were toiling steadfastly up the hill,
Ever keeping the end in view.

They scaled the crags of the mountain steep
When the noontide sun was high;
And they forded the flood of the canyon deep,
When the sun lay low in the sky.

But their tired feet are no longer as light
As in days of the long, long past,
And their youthful tresses have turned to white
With the snows, and the wintry blast.

Now hand in hand, they stand by the shore
Of a river dark and wide;
And the songs which the seraphs are wafting o'er,
They catch from the other side.

And their faces beam with unearthly light,
In the rays of the setting sun,
As their eyes peer far beyond mortals' sight,
And they learn that life's journey is done.

Hand in hand by the river, they stray
Where the dark waves wash the shore;
And they hear the splash, and the feathery spray,
As the ferryman dips his oar.

Now the father waves a loving adieu,
As he looses his clasped hand;
And the ferryman plies his oar anew,
Till he reaches the golden strand.

By the silent waves of the river of death,
The mother is waiting still,
With eager eye and with bated breath,
The