Over a Coffin Lid by Detroit Free Press

International Tract and Missionary Society · Oakland, California · Jan 29, 1885

Over a Coffin Lid.

By Detroit Free Press

"She—was—a—good—wife—to—me. A good wife, God bless her!"

These words were spoken in trembling accents over a coffin lid. The woman asleep there had borne the heat and burden of life's long day, and no one had ever heard her murmur; her hand was quick to reach out in a helping grasp to those who fell by the wayside, and her feet were swift on errands of mercy; the heart of her husband had trusted in her; he had left her to long hours of solitude, while he amused himself in scenes in which she had no part.

Children had been born to them. She had reared them almost alone—they were gone! Her hand had ministered to their last wants. Then she had comforted him, and sent him out strong and whole-hearted, while she stayed at home and—cried. What can a woman do but cry—and trust? Well, she is at rest now. But she could not die until he had promised to "bear up," not to fret, but to remember how happy they had been. They? Yes, it is even so. For she was blest in giving, and he in receiving. It was an equal partnership after all.

"She—was—a—good—wife—to—me."

O man! man!—why not have told her so, when her ears were not dulled by death? Why wait to say these words over a coffin wherein lies a wasted, gray-haired woman, whose eyes have so long held that pathetic story of loss and suffering and patient yearning which so many women's eyes reveal to those who read. Why not have made the wilderness in her heart to blossom like the rose with the fullness of your love? Now you would give worlds—were they yours to give—to see the tears of joy which your words would have once caused, bejeweling the closed windows of her soul. It is too late.

We have careful thoughts for the stranger, And smiles for the sometime guest, But oft for our own The bitter tone, Though we love our own the best.

—Detroit Free Press.