O tempted one, look up, be strong; The promise of the Lord is sure, That they shall sing the victor's song, Who faithful to the end endure; God's Holy Spirit comes to thee, Of this abiding love to tell; To blissful port, o'er stormy sea, Calls heaven's inviting harbor bell.
More to be Pitied than Censured.
There's an old concert hall on the bowery Where were assembled together one night A crowd of young fellows carousing, To them life looked happy and bright. At the very next table was seated A girl that had fallen to shame; How the fellows they laughed at her downfall, When they heard an old woman exclaim:
Chorus.
"She's more to be pitied than censured, She is more to be loved than despised; She is only a poor girl who ventured On life's rugged path ill-advised. Don't scorn her with words fierce and bitter, Don't laugh at her shame and downfall, Just pause for a moment—consider, That sin was the cause of it all."
There's an old-fashioned church 'round the corner, Where the neighbors all gathered one day, To listen to words from the parson, For a soul that had just passed away. 'Twas the same wayward girl from the bowery, Who a life of adventure had led; Did the parson then laugh at her downfall? No, he prayed and wept as he said:
Some Mother's Child.
At home or away, in the alley or street, Wherever I chance in this wide world to meet A girl that is thoughtless or a boy that is wild, My heart echoes softly: It is some mother's child.
Chorus.
Some mother's child, Some mother's child, My heart echoes softly: It is some mother's child.