The Master's hands held our world in place.
The soft caress of His gentle face,
The quiet peace of His loved embrace
Made a shrine of our childhood home.
We heard His voice in the flute-clear note
That curved on the breeze from the Southwind's throat,
In the timeless river's lyrical rote,
As we sang with the singing loam--
Our father who walked with Him each day
Bade us to know Him along our way.
The Improvement Era
