The Cottage - Jones Very

The house my earthly parent left,

My heavenly Father e’er throws down;

For ‘tis of air and sun bereft,

Nor stars its roof in beauty crown.

He gave it me, yet gave it not,

As one whose gifts are wise and good:

‘Twas but a poor and clay-built cot,

And for a time the storms withstood;

But lengthening years, and frequent rain,

O’ercame its strength, it tottered, fell;

And left me homeless here again,

And where to go I could not tell.

But soon the light and open air,

Received me as a wandering child;

And I soon thought their house more fair,

And was from all my grief beguiled.

Mine was the grove, the pleasant field,

Where dwelt the flowers I daily trod;

And there beside them too I kneeled,

And called their friend, my Father, God.