Child: (2)
Tell me, Mamma, if I must die
One day, as little baby died;
And look so very pale, and lie
Down in the pit-hole, by its side?
Shall I leave dear Papa and you,
And never see you any more;
Tell me, Mamma, if this is true;
I did not know it was before.
Mamma:
'Tis true, my love, that you must die;
The God who made you says you must;
And every one of us shall lie,
Like the dear baby in the dust.
These hands, and feet, and busy head,
Shall waste and crumble quite away;
But though your body shall be dead,
There is a part which can't decay:
That which now thinks within your heart,
And made you ask if you must die,
That is your soul - the better part -
Which God has made to live on high.
Those who have lov'd him here below,
And pray'd to have their sins forgiv'n,
And done his holy will, shall go,
Like happy angels up to heav'n;
So while their bodies moulder here,
Their souls with God himself shall dwell: -
But always recollect, my dear,
That wicked people go to hell.
There the good God shall never smile,
Nor give them one reviving look;
For since they choose to be so vile,
He leaves them to the way they took.
What is this little grassy mound,
Where pretty daisies bloom!
What is there lying under ground? -
It is an infant's tomb.
Alas, poor baby, did it die?
How dismal that must be!
To bid this pretty world good-bye
Seems very sad to me. -
Silence, my child; for could we hear
This happy baby's voice,
We should not drop another tear,
But triumph and rejoice.
"O do not ever weep for me,"
The happy would say;
Nor grieve, dear child, that I am free,
From that poor sleeping clay (3).
"Mourn not because my feeble breath
Was stopp'd as soon as giv'n:
There's nothing terrible in death
To those who come to heav'n.
"No sin, no sorrow, no complaints,
My pleasures here destroy:
I live with God and all his saints,
And endless is our joy. (4)
"While, with the spirits of the just,
My saviour I adore,
I smile upon my sleeping dust,
That now can weep no more."
"A Child's Prayer in Sickness" (1)
Since, mighty God, my health and ease,
And life, belong to thee,
I might not murmur, shouldst thou please,
To take them all from me.
Thou hast a right to use thy rod,
Which I should meekly bear;
And yet I may entreat that God
A sinful child would spare
I own the comforts I possess,
And thank thy care of me,
While thousands languish in distress,
And pine in poverty.
Yet look in pity on my pain:
My little strength restore;
And grant me life and health again,
To serve thee evermore.
"For a Dying Child" (1)
My heav'nly Father, I confess,
That all thy ways are just
Although I faint with sore distress,
And now draw near the dust.
How soon my health and strength are fled!
And life is nearly past:
O smile upon my dying bed,
And love me to the last.
Once did the blessed Saviour cry,
"Let little children come;" (5)
On this kind word I would rely,
Since I am going home.
O take this guilty soul of mine,
That now will soon be gone,
And wash it clean, and make it shine,
With heav'nly garments on.
Be pleas'd to grant me easy death,
If 'tis thy holy will,
And by the struggles of my breath
And all my pains be still.
Now, Lord, in heaven hear my pray'r;
Accept my dying praise;
And let me quickly meet thee there,
A better song to raise.
