|The woman at the Chandler’s shop,
Had always been a faithful friend,
And often came to see the child,
And staid awhile to wash and mend.
The lady at the Sunday-school,
Found out the little orphans’ home,
And she would come and read to Chris,
And he was glad to see her come.
She talked about the heavenly King,
And she would kneel and softly pray;
And thus he lingered on awhile,
Still getting weaker day by day.
‘Twas on a sultry summer’s night,
When heavy lay the stifling air,
As John was dropping off to sleep,
He heard a softly whispered prayer.
He knew ‘twas Chris, and did not stir,
And then he heard a gentle sigh;
It was the dear boy’s happy soul,
Escaping to its home on high.
He left behind his wasted form,
He rose above the toiling folk,
Above the cross upon St. Paul’s,
Above the fog, above the smoke.
And higher, hither, up he went,
Until he reached the golden gate,
Where night and day, in shining bands,
The holy angels watch and wait.
And he went in, and saw the King,
The Saviour, who for him had died,
And found once more, his mother dear;
And little Chris was satisfied.
And there they both together wait,
Till John shall reach that happy home,
And often from the golden gate.
They watch in hopes to see him come.
|But John had many years to live,
For he had useful work to do;
And he grew up an honest man,
A sober man, and Christian too.
His friend, the lady at the house,
When little Chris was dead and gone
Bound John apprentice to a trade,
And so he did not feel alone.
And that bright Minister of Love,
Appointed by the Saviour King
To guard those orphan boys on earth,
And then to heavenly glory bring.
Still walked with John his journey through
And though unseen was ever nigh,
Not left him till his work was done,
And then went up with him on high.
And there, in everlasting joy,
The mother and the brothers meet,
To part no more, and weep no more,
Nor dwell in that dark, dirty street;
To toil no more with bleeding feet,
Nor hungering long for something nice;
For they are clothed as angels are,
And eat the fruits of Paradise.
No more the cold shall freeze their limbs,
Nor darkness chill their dreary night;
It is eternal summer there,
And all the blessed rest in light:
And there with thousand thousand souls,
All saved from sorrow, fear, and shame.
They join to sing the happy song
Of praise to God, and to the Lamb.
Dear boys, who read the simple tale
Of these poor sweepers in the street,
The gracious God, who cared for them,
Will also guide your willing feet.