A Word to Saints

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A Word To Saints Who are Gathering

by Eliza R. Snow

Think not, when you gather to Zion,

Your troubles and trials are through--

That nothing but comfort and pleasure

Are waiting in Zion for you.

No, no; 'tis design'd as a furnace;

All substance, all textures to try --

To consume all the "wood, hay and stubble,"

And the gold from the dross purify.

Think not, when you gather to Zion

That all will be holy and pure --

That deception, and falsehood are banish'd;

And confidence wholly secure.

No, no; for the Lord our Redeemer

Has said that the tares with the wheat

Must grow; until the great day of burning

Shall render the harvest complete.

Think not, when you gather to Zion,

The Saints here have nothing to do

But attend to your personal welfare,

And always be comforting you.

No, the Saints who are faithful are doing

What their hands find to do, with their might;

To accomplish the gath'ring of Israel

They are toiling by day and by night.

Think not, when you gather to Zion,

The prize and the victory won --

Think not that the warfare is ended,

Or the work of salvation is done.

No, no; for the great Prince of Darkness

A tenfold exertion will make'

When he sees you approaching the fountain

Where the truth you may freely partake.

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