Two mates were drifting thus one night
In lonely silence on the Bay,
Such silence as old comrades know
That means more than a man can say.
Then spoke at last the younger man—
"The Babe is fretting sore to-night;
And pitiful it is to hear
Its cries up yonder on the height!"
And then the twain began to speak
Of that sad story of the place;
And question why such things should be
And what could limit Saving Grace.
"For seemeth me," the elder said,
"That babe hath more than common loss,
For it was born on holy ground
Though never named with sign of cross."
"And seemeth me," he musing said
"It must have been so nearly saved,
That even now it might be blest
If any man the deed had braved."
"And surely God's own heart must ache
To hear it sobbing through the dark,
And long to have its christened soul
Beside Him in the sheltering ark."
"Your tender babes are safe at home,
And cradled in their mother's prayers;
My sturdy sons to manhood grown,
Have long repaid my early cares."
"The very hawks upon the hill
Watch their fierce brood through calm and storm;
And timid conies in the fern
Keep their soft younglings safe and warm."
"And will not He who made them all
Watch o'er His little lost ones too,
And, maybe waited till this hour,
For us poor men His Will to do."
And then the other made reply—
"Let us christen the Babe if that be so,
And if we are doing the Will of the Lord
He will send us a token, that we shall know."