IN THE PEW.
IN the morn of the holy Sabbath
I like in the church to see
The dear little children clustered,
Worshiping there with me.
I am sure that the gentle pastor,
Whose words are like summer dew,
Is cheered as he gazes over
The dear little heads in the pew.
Faces earnest and thoughtful,
Innocent, grave, and sweet,
They look in the congregation
Like lilies among the wheat.
And I think that the tender Master,
Whose mercies are ever new,
Has a special benediction
For dear little heads in the pew.