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
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