A widow had two sons,
One filled her days with care
And creased her brow and brought
Her many a whitened hair
His country called—he went.
Nor thought to say good-by,
And recklessly he fought,
And died as heroes die.
A widow had two sons,
One fell as heroes fall,
And one remained and toiled,
And gave to her his all.
She watched "her hero's" grave
In dismal days and fair,
And told the world her love,
Her heart was buried there.
Our Mission
In the legends of the Norsemen,
Stories quaint and weird and wild,
There's a strange and thrilling story,
Of a mother and her child.
And that child, so runs the story,
In those quaint old Norsemen books,
Fell one day from dangerous play ground,
Dashed in pieces on the rocks;
But with gentle hand that mother
Gathered every tender part,
Bore them gently, torn and bleeding,
On her loving mother heart.
And within her humble dwelling,
Strong in faith and brave of soul,
With her love-song low and tender
Rocked and sang the fragments whole.
Such the mission of the Christian,
Taught by Christ so long ago;
This the mark that bids us stay not,
This the spirit each should know:
Rent and torn by sin the race is,
Heart from heart, and soul from soul;
This our task with Christ's sweet love-song,
Join, and heal, and make them whole.
—Rev. E. M. Bartlett
Verses
Lord over all! Whose power the sceptre swayed,
Ere first Creation's wondrous form was framed,
When by His will Divine all things were made;
Then, King, Almighty was His name proclaimed.
When all shall cease—the universe be o'er,
In awful greatness He alone will reign,
Who was, Who is, and Who will evermore
In glory most refulgent still remain.
Sole God! unequalled and beyond compare,
Without division or associate;
Without commencing date, or final year,
Omnipotent He reigns in awful state.