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The Sunday Book.
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|
 | The Poetical Works of Frances Ridley Havergal |  |
The Sunday Book.
Read to him, Connie, read as you sit,
Cosy and warm in the great arm-chair,
Let your hand press lovingly, lightly there,
Let the gentle touch of your sunny hair
Over his cheek like a soft breeze flit.
Cosy and warm in the great arm-chair,
Let your hand press lovingly, lightly there,
Let the gentle touch of your sunny hair
Over his cheek like a soft breeze flit.
Read to him, Connie! The house is still,
The week-day lessons, the week-day play,
And the week-day worries are hushed away
In the golden calm of the Holy Day;
He will listen now if ever he will.
The week-day lessons, the week-day play,
And the week-day worries are hushed away
In the golden calm of the Holy Day;
He will listen now if ever he will.
Read to him, Connie, read while you may!
For the years will pass, and he must go
Out in the cold world's treacherous flow,
Danger and trial and evil to know,—
He may drift in the dark, far, far away!
For the years will pass, and he must go
Out in the cold world's treacherous flow,
Danger and trial and evil to know,—
He may drift in the dark, far, far away!
Now he is happy and safe in the nest,
Teach him to warble the songs of home,
Teach him to soar but never to roam,
Only to soar to a starry dome,
Linking with heaven the hearts he loves best.
Teach him to warble the songs of home,
Teach him to soar but never to roam,
Only to soar to a starry dome,
Linking with heaven the hearts he loves best.
169
Read to him, Connie! Read what you love,
Holy and sweet be your Sabbath choice;
And the music that dwells in a sister's voice
Shall lure him to listen while angels rejoice,
As the soft tones blend with the harps above.
Holy and sweet be your Sabbath choice;
And the music that dwells in a sister's voice
Shall lure him to listen while angels rejoice,
As the soft tones blend with the harps above.
Read to him, Connie! Read of the One
Who loves him most, yes, more than you!
Read of that love, so great, so true,
Love everlasting, yet ever new;
For who can tell but his heart may be won!
Who loves him most, yes, more than you!
Read of that love, so great, so true,
Love everlasting, yet ever new;
For who can tell but his heart may be won!
Read to him, Connie! For it may be
That your Sunday book, like a silver bar
Of steady light from a guiding star,
May gleam in memory, clear and far,
Across the waves of a wintry sea.
That your Sunday book, like a silver bar
Of steady light from a guiding star,
May gleam in memory, clear and far,
Across the waves of a wintry sea.
| The Poetical Works of Frances Ridley Havergal | |