A Wayward Life.[An organ accompaniment, and singing by a concealed choir, will add very materially to the effect of this piece.]’Tisa cold winter night, and the earth is robed in a gown of snow. The moon is partly hidden by the driving clouds, and but dimly lights the sleeping world.The scene is a grave-yard. In the centre stands an old church. From its stained glass windows the warm light softly gleams. Slowly tottering along the narrow path is seen a human form; it is a rough old tramp, lonely, and almost bowed to the earth. He seeks among the tall, white tombs; now he sinks wearily down on a hard, rough mound. There is no marble slab to mark out the spot; only the drifted snow, only the bare leafless willow that moans and sighs above it.Hark! he speaks; his voice is feeble; he mournfully cries, “Mother, I’ve come home to die with you. Here on your long-neglected grave, here let me pillow my head and fancy I sleep in your arms; and the soft music within that dear church, let me fancy ’tis your sweet voice as you lull me to sleep. I dare not enter yon church, where in youth I worshiped my God.”See! he lays his head on that cold, hard mound, and sobs like a tired little child, “Oh, mother, I am weary, so weary of life, of toil so bitter and labor so hard. I long for rest, but I am afraid to die.” He pauses, he listens, for within the church a voice speaks slowly and reverently, “Come unto me all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.” The trampreplies, “Could I but know those words were meant for such a sinner as I!”—and heavy sobs convulse his poor, wretched frame.Now the choir sings:“Go tell it to Jesus, He knoweth thy grief,Go tell it to Jesus, He’ll send thee relief;Go gather the sunshine He sheds on the way,He’ll lighten thy burden, go, weary one, pray.”The wind moans piteously through the tall, gaunt trees, and he murmurs half inaudibly, “The prayers that were taught me in sweet boyhood years I then repeated with smiles, but now tears dim my eyes as I think of that patient mother who lies beneath this mound. I killed her! I broke her heart! But mother, oh, hear me to-night! With my poor, weary form I will guard you and sleep on your snow-covered grave. Could I know that when dead I could meet you in Heaven, I would rest calmly here on this rough pillow, but alas for my sins, so many, so vile! ’Tis only the pure and holy and good that ever dare hope they may enter therein.”Each note of the organ peals out, full of tenderest pathos, each word from the singers comes clearly and plainly:“Weary of earth and laden with my sin,I look at Heaven and long to enter in;But there no evil thing may find a home,And yet I hear a voice that bids me come.”Now he kneels in the snow and his head is bent low, he clasps his trembling hands, then with one yearning look towards Heaven, he sinks like a child, weary of play, sleepy and tired, on that snow-covered pillow, the pillow of death.Now the flakes fall faster and faster still, they cover him gently, like a mother that covers her child, lest she waken it out of its slumber.Now more holy than ever, grander than ever, the old organ peals out, and the choir sings:“Safe in the arms of Jesus,Safe on his gentle breast,There by his love o’er-shadowed,Sweetly my soul shall rest.”—Lizzie G. Vickers.
A Wayward Life.[An organ accompaniment, and singing by a concealed choir, will add very materially to the effect of this piece.]’Tisa cold winter night, and the earth is robed in a gown of snow. The moon is partly hidden by the driving clouds, and but dimly lights the sleeping world.The scene is a grave-yard. In the centre stands an old church. From its stained glass windows the warm light softly gleams. Slowly tottering along the narrow path is seen a human form; it is a rough old tramp, lonely, and almost bowed to the earth. He seeks among the tall, white tombs; now he sinks wearily down on a hard, rough mound. There is no marble slab to mark out the spot; only the drifted snow, only the bare leafless willow that moans and sighs above it.Hark! he speaks; his voice is feeble; he mournfully cries, “Mother, I’ve come home to die with you. Here on your long-neglected grave, here let me pillow my head and fancy I sleep in your arms; and the soft music within that dear church, let me fancy ’tis your sweet voice as you lull me to sleep. I dare not enter yon church, where in youth I worshiped my God.”See! he lays his head on that cold, hard mound, and sobs like a tired little child, “Oh, mother, I am weary, so weary of life, of toil so bitter and labor so hard. I long for rest, but I am afraid to die.” He pauses, he listens, for within the church a voice speaks slowly and reverently, “Come unto me all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.” The trampreplies, “Could I but know those words were meant for such a sinner as I!”—and heavy sobs convulse his poor, wretched frame.Now the choir sings:“Go tell it to Jesus, He knoweth thy grief,Go tell it to Jesus, He’ll send thee relief;Go gather the sunshine He sheds on the way,He’ll lighten thy burden, go, weary one, pray.”The wind moans piteously through the tall, gaunt trees, and he murmurs half inaudibly, “The prayers that were taught me in sweet boyhood years I then repeated with smiles, but now tears dim my eyes as I think of that patient mother who lies beneath this mound. I killed her! I broke her heart! But mother, oh, hear me to-night! With my poor, weary form I will guard you and sleep on your snow-covered grave. Could I know that when dead I could meet you in Heaven, I would rest calmly here on this rough pillow, but alas for my sins, so many, so vile! ’Tis only the pure and holy and good that ever dare hope they may enter therein.”Each note of the organ peals out, full of tenderest pathos, each word from the singers comes clearly and plainly:“Weary of earth and laden with my sin,I look at Heaven and long to enter in;But there no evil thing may find a home,And yet I hear a voice that bids me come.”Now he kneels in the snow and his head is bent low, he clasps his trembling hands, then with one yearning look towards Heaven, he sinks like a child, weary of play, sleepy and tired, on that snow-covered pillow, the pillow of death.Now the flakes fall faster and faster still, they cover him gently, like a mother that covers her child, lest she waken it out of its slumber.Now more holy than ever, grander than ever, the old organ peals out, and the choir sings:“Safe in the arms of Jesus,Safe on his gentle breast,There by his love o’er-shadowed,Sweetly my soul shall rest.”—Lizzie G. Vickers.
[An organ accompaniment, and singing by a concealed choir, will add very materially to the effect of this piece.]
’Tisa cold winter night, and the earth is robed in a gown of snow. The moon is partly hidden by the driving clouds, and but dimly lights the sleeping world.
The scene is a grave-yard. In the centre stands an old church. From its stained glass windows the warm light softly gleams. Slowly tottering along the narrow path is seen a human form; it is a rough old tramp, lonely, and almost bowed to the earth. He seeks among the tall, white tombs; now he sinks wearily down on a hard, rough mound. There is no marble slab to mark out the spot; only the drifted snow, only the bare leafless willow that moans and sighs above it.
Hark! he speaks; his voice is feeble; he mournfully cries, “Mother, I’ve come home to die with you. Here on your long-neglected grave, here let me pillow my head and fancy I sleep in your arms; and the soft music within that dear church, let me fancy ’tis your sweet voice as you lull me to sleep. I dare not enter yon church, where in youth I worshiped my God.”
See! he lays his head on that cold, hard mound, and sobs like a tired little child, “Oh, mother, I am weary, so weary of life, of toil so bitter and labor so hard. I long for rest, but I am afraid to die.” He pauses, he listens, for within the church a voice speaks slowly and reverently, “Come unto me all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.” The trampreplies, “Could I but know those words were meant for such a sinner as I!”—and heavy sobs convulse his poor, wretched frame.
Now the choir sings:
“Go tell it to Jesus, He knoweth thy grief,Go tell it to Jesus, He’ll send thee relief;Go gather the sunshine He sheds on the way,He’ll lighten thy burden, go, weary one, pray.”
“Go tell it to Jesus, He knoweth thy grief,Go tell it to Jesus, He’ll send thee relief;Go gather the sunshine He sheds on the way,He’ll lighten thy burden, go, weary one, pray.”
“Go tell it to Jesus, He knoweth thy grief,
Go tell it to Jesus, He’ll send thee relief;
Go gather the sunshine He sheds on the way,
He’ll lighten thy burden, go, weary one, pray.”
The wind moans piteously through the tall, gaunt trees, and he murmurs half inaudibly, “The prayers that were taught me in sweet boyhood years I then repeated with smiles, but now tears dim my eyes as I think of that patient mother who lies beneath this mound. I killed her! I broke her heart! But mother, oh, hear me to-night! With my poor, weary form I will guard you and sleep on your snow-covered grave. Could I know that when dead I could meet you in Heaven, I would rest calmly here on this rough pillow, but alas for my sins, so many, so vile! ’Tis only the pure and holy and good that ever dare hope they may enter therein.”
Each note of the organ peals out, full of tenderest pathos, each word from the singers comes clearly and plainly:
“Weary of earth and laden with my sin,I look at Heaven and long to enter in;But there no evil thing may find a home,And yet I hear a voice that bids me come.”
“Weary of earth and laden with my sin,I look at Heaven and long to enter in;But there no evil thing may find a home,And yet I hear a voice that bids me come.”
“Weary of earth and laden with my sin,
I look at Heaven and long to enter in;
But there no evil thing may find a home,
And yet I hear a voice that bids me come.”
Now he kneels in the snow and his head is bent low, he clasps his trembling hands, then with one yearning look towards Heaven, he sinks like a child, weary of play, sleepy and tired, on that snow-covered pillow, the pillow of death.
Now the flakes fall faster and faster still, they cover him gently, like a mother that covers her child, lest she waken it out of its slumber.
Now more holy than ever, grander than ever, the old organ peals out, and the choir sings:
“Safe in the arms of Jesus,Safe on his gentle breast,There by his love o’er-shadowed,Sweetly my soul shall rest.”
“Safe in the arms of Jesus,Safe on his gentle breast,There by his love o’er-shadowed,Sweetly my soul shall rest.”
“Safe in the arms of Jesus,
Safe on his gentle breast,
There by his love o’er-shadowed,
Sweetly my soul shall rest.”
—Lizzie G. Vickers.