The Crusade of the ChildrenBy Margaret Belle Houston(In “The Woman’s Journal.”)
By Margaret Belle Houston
(In “The Woman’s Journal.”)
O’er the grind of the wheels of traffic,Through the strident scream of the mart,Soundeth a muffled tramping,Like the faltering beat of a heart.But only the ear hath heard itThat low on the earth is laid—The stumbling tread of the children,As they go on their long crusade!Oh, some that are rosy as blossomsSing with the singing rills,Wade through the sun-lit shadowsAnd clamber the violet hills.But these are the paler childrenThat move with the sad footfalls,And dark is the road they follow,Tunneled through iron walls.They hear the song of the othersRing sweet in the outer air,But they may not run in the sunlightWith the load their shoulders bear.They may not weave bright blossomsThough nimble their fingers be;But the Master hath not forgotten—“Let the little ones come to me!”Well have ye planned and shaped it,The road that the children plod,Yet it leads, for all your delving,Straight to the throne of God.And there shall they lay their burdens,And there will they loose their bands;They will lift up their twisted fingers,To Him of the nail-marked hands.They will cry, “Like Thee, O Father,We come with the marks of men!”Nor all the gold of their toilingWill spare you His answer then!Better the nether millstoneAnd the depths of the darkest seas!Ye have wounded Christ the Avenger,Who wounded the least of these!
O’er the grind of the wheels of traffic,Through the strident scream of the mart,Soundeth a muffled tramping,Like the faltering beat of a heart.But only the ear hath heard itThat low on the earth is laid—The stumbling tread of the children,As they go on their long crusade!Oh, some that are rosy as blossomsSing with the singing rills,Wade through the sun-lit shadowsAnd clamber the violet hills.But these are the paler childrenThat move with the sad footfalls,And dark is the road they follow,Tunneled through iron walls.They hear the song of the othersRing sweet in the outer air,But they may not run in the sunlightWith the load their shoulders bear.They may not weave bright blossomsThough nimble their fingers be;But the Master hath not forgotten—“Let the little ones come to me!”Well have ye planned and shaped it,The road that the children plod,Yet it leads, for all your delving,Straight to the throne of God.And there shall they lay their burdens,And there will they loose their bands;They will lift up their twisted fingers,To Him of the nail-marked hands.They will cry, “Like Thee, O Father,We come with the marks of men!”Nor all the gold of their toilingWill spare you His answer then!Better the nether millstoneAnd the depths of the darkest seas!Ye have wounded Christ the Avenger,Who wounded the least of these!
O’er the grind of the wheels of traffic,Through the strident scream of the mart,Soundeth a muffled tramping,Like the faltering beat of a heart.But only the ear hath heard itThat low on the earth is laid—The stumbling tread of the children,As they go on their long crusade!
O’er the grind of the wheels of traffic,
Through the strident scream of the mart,
Soundeth a muffled tramping,
Like the faltering beat of a heart.
But only the ear hath heard it
That low on the earth is laid—
The stumbling tread of the children,
As they go on their long crusade!
Oh, some that are rosy as blossomsSing with the singing rills,Wade through the sun-lit shadowsAnd clamber the violet hills.But these are the paler childrenThat move with the sad footfalls,And dark is the road they follow,Tunneled through iron walls.
Oh, some that are rosy as blossoms
Sing with the singing rills,
Wade through the sun-lit shadows
And clamber the violet hills.
But these are the paler children
That move with the sad footfalls,
And dark is the road they follow,
Tunneled through iron walls.
They hear the song of the othersRing sweet in the outer air,But they may not run in the sunlightWith the load their shoulders bear.They may not weave bright blossomsThough nimble their fingers be;But the Master hath not forgotten—“Let the little ones come to me!”
They hear the song of the others
Ring sweet in the outer air,
But they may not run in the sunlight
With the load their shoulders bear.
They may not weave bright blossoms
Though nimble their fingers be;
But the Master hath not forgotten—
“Let the little ones come to me!”
Well have ye planned and shaped it,The road that the children plod,Yet it leads, for all your delving,Straight to the throne of God.And there shall they lay their burdens,And there will they loose their bands;They will lift up their twisted fingers,To Him of the nail-marked hands.
Well have ye planned and shaped it,
The road that the children plod,
Yet it leads, for all your delving,
Straight to the throne of God.
And there shall they lay their burdens,
And there will they loose their bands;
They will lift up their twisted fingers,
To Him of the nail-marked hands.
They will cry, “Like Thee, O Father,We come with the marks of men!”Nor all the gold of their toilingWill spare you His answer then!Better the nether millstoneAnd the depths of the darkest seas!Ye have wounded Christ the Avenger,Who wounded the least of these!
They will cry, “Like Thee, O Father,
We come with the marks of men!”
Nor all the gold of their toiling
Will spare you His answer then!
Better the nether millstone
And the depths of the darkest seas!
Ye have wounded Christ the Avenger,
Who wounded the least of these!