Yet not a Mother's care
Who for her infant sighs,
When absence shuts it from her arms
Or sickness dims its eye,
Transcends the love divine,
The welcome full and free,
With which the glorious King of Heaven
Will stretch his arms to thee,
When thou with contrite tear
Shalt wait within his walls,
Imploring but the broken bread
That from his table falls.
No more his mansion shun,
No more distrust his grace,
Turn from the orphanage of earth
And find a Sire's embrace.
VOICE FROM THE GRAVE OF A SUNDAY-SCHOOL TEACHER.
Yes, this is holy ground,
Lay me to slumber here,
The cherish'd thoughts of early days,
Have made this spot most dear,—
Fast by the hallow'd church
Where first I learned to pray
In faith, and penitence and peace,—
Make ye my bed of clay.
