There Is a Land Whose King Is Fair
There is a land whose king is fair — fine and higher than any other. Upon his board the bread of loving kindness is always present with fellowship for all who come and sup with him. From his cup the wine of joy ever flows to make merry those who will receive. They are a people blessed indeed who reach that hearth at the end of need’s sore journey, where to find an open door and warmth and welcome there. Oh to shelter there! Filled and warmed with his repast.
’Tis the testing sorrow then of life’s long days: the way thus remains a mystery unsearchable to us. Never the path can we know sure nor any shortcut take. Where he’s gone, we cannot go. But going indeed we are, and sure to arrive, at journey’s end, to find his dwelling, our dwelling, there. But many the steps, and many the roads must we walk ere then, in gnawing cold and foreign land.
Yet all along the way I find kindred of the king, dispersed and sojourning alike as we, who hearth and home open up to me. “Come, weary soul and rest. What’s ours — simple though it may be — is yours.” Their shelter and fellowship and supper shine with a kingly glow, and regnant remind me, though long have I to go ere his home I dwell in, many his homes and many his cups I’ve already shared in. For his kingdom is great — and its fullness is coming — so great even now it incarnates the low.
