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Set it down gently at the altar rail
The faithful, agéd dust with honors meet;
Long have we seen that pious face, so pale,
Bowed meekly at her Saviour's blessed feet.


These many years her heart was hidden, where
Nor moth, nor rust, nor craft of men could harm,
The blue eyes, seldom lifted save in prayer,
Beamed with her wished-for heaven's celestial calm.


As innocent as childhood's was the face,
Though sorrow oft had touched that tender heart;
Each trouble came as winged by special grace,
And resignation saved the wound from smart.


On bead and crucifix her fingers kept,
Until the last, their fond accustomed hold;
"My Jesus," breathed the lips; the raised eyes slept,
The placid brow, the gentle hand grew cold.


The choicely ripening cluster, lingering late
Into October on its shrivelled vine,
Wins mellow juices, which in patience wait
Upon those long, long days of deep sunshine.


Then set it gently at the altar rail,
The faithful, agéd dust with honors meet;
How can we hope if such as she can fail
Before the Eternal God's high judgment-seat.