I sat with sorrow underneath my cross

The little ones whose mother's with the dead
Came with their many wants around my knee
And added, needless burden some one said,
But ah! they were God's messengers to me,
For here were duties that my hands must do,
Although my wound might only bleed and smart,
And so there came some solace to me through
The helpless hands that touched my aching heart
Ah! little children bringing everywhere
God's blessed comfort mingled in with care

And so I do my task, my daily task,
Working the work that's given me to do,
Getting the daily strength for which I ask,
The needed courage still to help me through;
And my great sorrow passes out of sight,
I have not time to sit and make my moan;
But in the solemn stillness of the night,
My woe comes back to me with heavy groan.
And yet our Father weaves His golden thread
Into the warp of duty's homespun web.




OUT OF THE DEPTHS.