MY MOTHER’S “BIBLE-BOOK.”
Her little old red “Bible-book”
Lies here upon my stand,
So precious are its memories
I keep it close at hand.
Here on the fly-leaf is her name,
Long since ’twas written there,
Long ere she took the wander-road
In Sabbath-deeps of air.
How glad with gladness is the book,
Forever, ever new,
How dear with unforgetting love,
How sad with sadness, too.
The silver clasp is warped and worn,
And buckles with a lurch,
This Holy, Holy “Bible-book”
My mother took to church,
When I, a village six-year-old,
In dainty tier and frill,
Walked close beside, as hand in hand,
We climbed the steep, long hill.
There were no priests in white array,
How simple were the rites,
No lofty arch, no ruby glass,
Beadle nor acolytes,
But glory touched each sacred word,
Love rippled like a brook,
As we together, side by side,
Read from this “Bible-book.”
Gone with the leaf and summer shine,
And youth, but even so,
How white and stainless is the page,
And O, how long ago
It seems since that immortal day!
But God, there is no smirch
On this—that Holy “Bible-book”
My mother took to church.