JOY COMETH IN THE MORNING.
By J. H. Woodruff
LINES TO MRS. A. BURWELL ON THE DEATH OF HER HUSBAND.
Sister, weeping lone to-night,
O’er a much-loved treasure flown—
List’ning for the well-known tread—
Missing the familiar tone,
Tides of memory sad and sweet,
O’er thy soul will ceaseless flow,
Bringing back the lost one’s ways,
Looks and tones of long ago. Know thy Saviour sendeth all;
He who wept at Bethany,
Think how not the sparrows fall,
But he watcheth tenderly.
He will speed to thy relief,
Haste the bitter fount to dry,
Turn to song the poignant grief,
Bid all earth-taint quickly fly. Sister, ’neath whose household tree,
Love sits grieving lone to-night,
Round whose hearthstone clouds have closed
Shutting out the joy and light;
Weep—but sorrow not as those
Who no hope in Jesus know;
Thou may’st sing amid thy woes,
Praises for the chastening blow.