JESUS LOVES A LITTLE CHILD.
Mamma, 'tis Jesus loves my soul,
And makes the wounded spirit whole;
My nature is by sin defil'd,
Yet-Jesus loves a little child.
I know my temper is not right,
I'm often fretful, scold, and fight;
I would like him be meek and mild,
For-Jesus loves a little child.
How kind is Jesus! Oh how good,
For my poor soul he shed his blood;
For children's sake he was revil'd,
Yet-Jesus loves a little child.
When I offend you by my tongue,
And say and do what's very wrong;
Oh pray, mamma, be reconcil'd,
For-Jesus loves a little child.
"SUFFER LITTLE CHILDREN TO COME UNTO ME."
I think when I read that sweet story of old,
When Jesus was here among men,
How he call'd little children like lambs to his fold,
I should like to have been with them then.
I wish that his hands had been plac'd on my head,
That his arm had been thrown around me,
And that I might have seen his kind look, when he said "Let the little ones come unto me."
Yet still to his footstool in prayer I may go,
And ask for a share of his love;
And if I thus earnestly seek him below,
I shall see him and hear him above;
In that beautiful place he is gone to prepare
For all who are wash'd and forgiven;
And many dear children are gathering there,
"For of such is the kingdom of heaven."
Which is the way to heaven?
Dear mother, tell;
Where children, all forgiven,
In glory dwell.
Tell me, that I may run therein,
That I a glorious crown may win,
Tell me, dear mother, tell.
Is that the glorious way?
Kind mother, tell-
Marked on that solemn day
The chariot fell.
Oh tell me, and let me fly away
As Elijah in chariot bright as day,
Mother, kind mother, tell.
Or is that the gloomy road,
Dear mother, tell?
Which the glorious martyr's trode,
Defying hell?
HAPPY ONES IN HEAVEN.
Tell me, and e'en the hottest flame
Shall prove my love for Jesu's name-
Tell me, dear mother, tell.
'Tis not as Elijah rode,
In chariot bright;
Although he has reach'd the abode
Of pure delight.
Nor are we called to tread the road,
Bearing the stains of martyr's blood,
To heaven, so pure, so bright!
Believe, believe, dear child,
In God's dear Son;
Hark! Jesus, meek and mild,
Bids children come.
You'll find in him the blessed way
That leads to everlasting day-
To heaven, to heaven, our home!
ARE HAPPY ONES IN HEAVEN?
Children, listen to the strains
Bursting through the heavenly plains!
Hear ye not the chorus sweet,
Which the happy ones repeat?
Unto Him that bled and died,
Endless praises be ascribed!'
Hosts of children praise the Lamb-
Would you know from whence they came?
They were once like you below,
But were saved from sin and woe;
Oh how happy now they feel-
Joys they have unspeakable!
Some are there from India's strand :
Some from England's favoured land;
Some from Afric's burning plains;
Some from Greenland's cold domains;
But their song of praise is one—
No distinction there is known.
Some are there whom you have known,
Decked with an immortal crown!
With palms of victory in their hand!
Round the throne of God they stand!
Hark! what anthems sweet they raise!
Hear ye not their songs of praise?
Children, would you share their bliss?
Would you feel their happiness?
You must here the Saviour know,
If you would to glory go.
Hark! he says, in accents kind,
They that early seek shall find.'
"WHO MADE ME?" HE, who spread out the sky, That broad, blue canopy;
Who made the glorious sun,
The moon to shine by night,
The stars with eye so bright,
He made thee, little one.
He, who with care doth keep
The young birds while they sleep;
And when their rest is done,
Doth guide them through the sky,
And feed them when they cry,
He made thee, little one.
There's music in a mother's voice,
More sweet than breezes sighing;
There's kindness in a mother's glance,
Too pure for ever dying.
There's love within a mother's breast,
So deep, 'tis still o'erflowing;
And care for those she calls her own,
That's ever,ever growing.
There's anguish in a mother's tear,
When farewell fondly taking;
That so the heart of pity moves,
It scarcely keeps from breaking.
And when a mother kneels to heaven,
And for her child is praying :
Oh! who can half the fervour tell,
That burns in all she's saying.
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