A scaffold high with spreading arms on yonder height we see,
It waits to take its victim's life, exulting cruelly.
While zephyr's blow, birds hover o'er a soul in dire distress,
With troubled gaze breathes out a prayer. Will God attend and bless?

What matter if he's clothed in sin, what matter if he's wild,
In foulest guilt? Remember, that, he is somebody's child.
We cannot tell how hard he strove to shun temptation's snare;
How often on his mother's breast he wept in his despair.

How oft her lips had softly pressed his dimpled infant cheek,
How oft her hand in love caressed the sinless baby feet.
Then, strangers, pause and listen well; so might your own have been,
But Christ can freely pardon all, though scarlet be his sin.

Some mother's boy! The sweet refrain is breathed in accents mild.
Some mother's boy! If bent and gray, if pure or all denied.
Some mother's boy! Soft bells repeat in sad and sweetest chime;
Some mother's boy! A mother sighs; perhaps he may be mine.




~The Gift.~


God calls you, my Daughter--I hear the sweet voice
Of Jesus our Saviour, He would make you His choice,
To work in His vineyard, to teach in His name;
He'd give you the power, lost souls to reclaim.