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« Till I have my journey past,
I THINK when I read that sweet story of old,
When Jesus was here among men, How he called little children, as lambs, to his
fold, I should like to have been with him then. I wish that his hand had been placed on my
head, That his arm had been thrown around me, And that I might have seen his kind look,
when he said
If Jesus were here, and would smile on my
song, When to love him and praise him I tried, With sweetest hosannas, I'd join in the throng,
And would press myself close to his side. And if they should chide me or send me away,
I would cling to his sheltering knee ; And I'd tell them the words he himself once
Yet still to the footstool of
go, And ask for a share of his love ; And if I thus earnestly seek him below,
I shall see him and hear him above. In that beautiful place he is gone to prepare,
For all who are washed and forgiven; And many dear children are gathering there,
“For of such is the kingdom of Heaven.”
But thousands and thousands, who wander and
fall, Never heard of that beautiful home; I should like them to know there is room for
And that Jesus has bid them to come.
I so long for the joy of that glorious time,
The sweetest, and brightest, and best, When the dear little children of every clime,
Shall crowd to his arms and be blest.
THE ORPHAN CHILD.
Upon my father's new-clos'd grave
Deep lies the winter's snow, Green now the grass waves o'er his head,
And tall the tomb-weeds grow.
But other hearts, Lord, thou hast warm'd
With tenderness benign,
The tear of pity shine.
The stranger's hand by thee is moved
To be the orphan's stay ;
Hath taught me how to pray.
THE HEAVENLY LAND.
Every morning the red sun
Rises warm and bright; But the evening cometh on
And the dark cold night; There's a bright land far away, Where 'tis never-ending day.
Every spring the sweet young flowers
Open fresh and gay ;
Wither them away ;
Little birds sing songs of praise
All the summer long ;
They forget their song:
Who shall go to that fair land ?
All who love the right;
In their robes of white ;
A BLOOMING group at morning's prime,
Moved by their parents' voice, Each offered from the Book Divine,
A fragment of their choice.
And one a beauteous boy, o'er whom
Four happy summers swept, Raised his clear trustful eyes and said,
“ I laid me down and slept."
Oh! sweet, my son, the gem you bring, But know you not
rest “I waked, because the Lord sustained ;'
Complete the sentence blest.