When twilight weaves its misty veil and threads
It fast with silver stars, a sphere will don
Her sparkling robe and reign upon the night,
Pale queen of peace ‘till sleepy dreams are gone.
She is the harvest moon, held high above
The golden fields, her womb is swollen round
With milky light. She climbs the evening sky—
Still higher, pregnant with full glory crowned.
The moonlight circles ‘round my feeble form
And all my labors seem of little worth.
For in that wondrous hour, I’m whisked away,
To chase the pearl suspended over earth.
Oh sinful soul! Too sick and self-absorbed,
To turn my longing eyes and really see,
That beauty fades and time will pass; the moon
Will not be frozen for eternity.
Eternal life, the pearl of great expense,
The gem my Savior bought to pay my debt.
The Maker of the moon and stars was slain,
So I may gain the finest treasure yet.
By: Tamala Aown