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THE ORPHAN.
And when disease steals fiercely through her frame,
And she is lying helpless, pale, and weak—
When fever's wild and desolating flame
Is burning on her brow and wasted cheek,
None come to stand beside her couch and lave
Her lip and forehead with the cooling wave.
And she is lying helpless, pale, and weak—
When fever's wild and desolating flame
Is burning on her brow and wasted cheek,
None come to stand beside her couch and lave
Her lip and forehead with the cooling wave.
Yet, oh, there's One to whom she still may turn,
One who hath power to soothe, to heal, to bless—
The great All-Merciful, who will not spurn
The weeping orphan in her wretchedness,
Yes, she may lift her earnest prayers on high
To Him who listens to the raven's cry.
One who hath power to soothe, to heal, to bless—
The great All-Merciful, who will not spurn
The weeping orphan in her wretchedness,
Yes, she may lift her earnest prayers on high
To Him who listens to the raven's cry.
He hears her pleading tones of agony—
He sees the tears her lifted eyes that fill,
And the deep wounds that bled upon the tree
Are for the lovely orphan bleeding still!
He will be with her in sore distress,
A friend—a father to the fatherless
He sees the tears her lifted eyes that fill,
And the deep wounds that bled upon the tree
Are for the lovely orphan bleeding still!
He will be with her in sore distress,
A friend—a father to the fatherless
