Your mothers have prayed for you, my friends, for many and many a day, Perhaps these days of life will soon be o'er, Come, give your hearts to Jesus, get on the narrow way, And meet her on that happy golden shore. Oh, come just now while still there's room, and pardon free for all. The Savior pleads, oh, do not longer roam. And then with Jesus in your heart, you will send the message To your dear mother, praying still for you at home.
Soon the Death-bell Will Toll.
When the last Gospel message has been told in your ears, And the last solemn warning has been given you in tears; When hope shall escape from its place in your breast, Oh, where will your poor weary soul find its rest?
Chorus.
Soon the death-bell will toll—look after your soul; O, sinner be ready, for the death-bell will toll.
When the darkness of death shall compass you round, When the friends you have loved are all standing around; Unable to save you now from the tomb, Unable to alter your terrible doom.
When before the white throne of His Judgment you stand, "What have you to answer?" the Judge will demand; Oh, terrible moment to be standing alone, When mercy forever and forever is gone.
The End of the Way.
The following beautiful lines were written by a girl in Nova Scotia, an invalid for many years:
My life is a wearisome journey; I'm sick of the dust and the heat; The rays of the sun beat upon me, The briars are wounding my feet. But the city to which I am journeying Will more than my trials repay; All the toils of the road will seem nothing When I get to the end of the way.