University of Virginia Library

Our dear ones are torn from us; one by one
The golden links of our soul's love are severed;
And 'mid the quicksands and the shoals of life
The heavy billows of adversity
Cast us forlorn and naked. It is well,
For God hath stricken us. Still, from the depths
Of our great desolation goeth up,
Like his, the frail disciple on the sea,
Our feeble cry: “Lord, help us or we perish!”

Yet, though thou chastenest me, I flee unto thee,
And put my trust in thee, and at thy feet
Lay down my precious things; nor would I murmur
Though thy good Providence saw meet to strip me
Even of the one dear blessing thou hast left.
And, for thou yet art mereiful, my soul
Shall not withhold aught from thee. Oh! my Father,
Accept mine offering: this one poor lamb
I dedicate to thee in life or death;
Accept thou him; thou hast mine other treasures!

Boy, clasp thy hands, and raise thy heart to God;
And here, before him, in the face of day,
Here, in the chamber of our poverty,
With our sore desolation round about us,
I dedicate thy life and all thy powers
To him and his great human family.
Father! behold thy child; and what in him
Comes short of thy requirings, give him further.
Give him true courage: not such as makes men
Stand, sword in hand, to meet their enemy;
But such as nerved the Saviour to drive forth
The traders from the Temple; as sustained him
'Mid the revilers in the outer court,
When, crowned with thorns, he answered not again.
Give him persuasive speech: not with bland lies
To win the ear of courts, or to take captive
The hearts of women, but with eloquent words
To lure men's souls to virtue; to make felt
How beautiful is love, and to instil
The spirit of love, even like a holy essence,
Where'er his presence comes. Oh! gracious Father,
That this poor child of mine might be thy herald
Among mankind! to the lorn prisoner,
Within the hopeless dungeon, carrying knowledge
Better than life, light better than the day;
That to the judge upon the high tribunal
He might impart mercy and charity!
Oh! let him sit by death beds, and in homes
Made desolate, and with the faint in heart,
And the poor weary sinner! Let him compass
Both land and sea to speak peace to the mourner!

Father, I ask not wealth, nor length of days,
But bread to eat and raiment to put on,
And that thou wilt support me to make fit
This child for thy great works.