Women of the Early Harlem Renaissance: African American Women Writers 1900-1922

Church Bells

I closed my book to listen;
   The story was losing its charms,
As the chime of distant church bells,
   Came stealing o'er gardens and farms.
The bells were chiming a story,
   A story that ne'er grows old;
The story of Christ, our Shephard,
   And the sweet peace, found in his fold.
The story of all He suffered,
   That we might havve a home;
And now the bells were calling
   The weary ones, to come;
The bells were calling, calling, ----
   Blest, tender, pleading tone!
"Oh weary ones," they sweetly chimed,
   "Oh weary ones, come home," 

The birds flew past the window,
   With twitter and flutter and song,
Their hearts o'erflowing with music,
   Glad hearts, that knew no wrong;

But the far-off bells were chiming,
   Of a price paid long ago,
That we, through faith, may be sinless,
   And pure as the falling snow.
"Come thou, oh weary pilgrim,
   With burden grown too great,
Thy Savior now is waiting,
   Oh, lay them at His feet!"
The bells were calling, calling,----
   Blest, gentle, pleading tone!
"Oh weary ones, oh weary ones,
   Oh weary ones, come home."

Hath sin thy hands been staining,
   Until they're pure no more?
Hath thorns thy feet been piercing,
   Until they're bleeding sore?
Come thou to Christ, thy Savior,
   His hand is stretched to thee,
Take it; 'twill guide thee safe thro' life,
   And through eternity.
Sweetly, the bells are calling;
   Oh sinner, heed the tone!
"Oh wicked ones, oh wand'ring ones,
   Oh weary ones, come home."

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