Ours Is but a Foretaste

The fathers went down to Egypt Many long years ago And became as numerous as heaven. He sent me to jail with only three. Now – plus grands – we have eleven. When I think of Anastasia Who would have made us twelve, The child who never was among us, I imagine her well occupied With the unsearchable riches of love, There ever beholding the face of God, Never exhausting her pure worship. She has a place unknown to us Who here still see dimly. Ours is but a foretaste And yet our fellowship here is sweet As we anticipate those glories to come More than fun everlasting with the Son.

0600, 29 Oct., 2020