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BEST.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

BEST.

Mother, I see you, with your nursery light,
Leading your babies, all in white,
To their sweet rest;
Christ, the Good Shepherd, carries mine to-night,
And that is best.
I cannot help tears, when I see them twine
Their fingers in yours, and their bright curls shine
On your warm breast;
But the Saviour's is purer than yours or mine,
He can love best!
You tremble each hour because your arms
Are weak; your heart is wrung with alarms
And sore opprest;
My darlings are safe, out of reach of harms,
And that is best.

75

You know, over yours may hang even now
Pain and disease, whose fulfilling slow
Naught can arrest;
Mine in God's gardens run to and fro,
And that is best.
You know that of yours, your feeblest one
And dearest may live long years alone,
Unloved, unblest;
Mine are cherished of saints around God's throne.
And that is best.
You must dread for yours the crime that sears.
Dark guilt unwashed by repentant tears,
And unconfessed;
Mine entered spotless on eternal years,
O, how much the best!
But grief is selfish; I cannot see
Always why I should so stricken be,
More than the rest;
But I know that, as well as for them, for me
God did the best!