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Our doors open wide to the ever true friend Who stands close beside us in sickness and woe;Through the desolate days and the nights as we bend, Above the faint pulse that is flickering low.
How we watch every look that comes over his face, When his hand touches softly the feverish brow;So eagerly there have we striven to trace The hope that was dying within us just now.
'T was he who stood by in that terrible hour Of anguish that gave to our baby its breath;How we leaned on his strength and relied on his power, When motherhood struggled so fiercely with death.
His life is a volume of merciful deeds, A mission of holiness sacredly brave;Wherever humanity's suffering pleads— He is first at the cradle and last at the grave.
In the halls of the rich, in the huts of the poor; Those heaven-sent heroes come steady and true,
