[An organ accompaniment, and singing by a concealed choir, will add very materially to the effect of this piece.]
’Tis a cold winter night, and the earth is robed in a gown of snow. The moon is partly hidden by the driving clouds, and but dimly lights the sleeping world.
The scene is a grave-yard. In the centre stands an old church. From its stained glass windows the warm light softly gleams. Slowly tottering along the narrow path is seen a human form; it is a rough old tramp, lonely, and almost bowed to the earth. He seeks among the tall, white tombs; now he sinks wearily down on a hard, rough mound. There is no marble slab to mark out the spot; only the drifted snow, only the bare leafless willow that moans and sighs above it.
Hark! he speaks; his voice is feeble; he mournfully cries, “Mother, I’ve come home to die with you. Here on your long-neglected grave, here let me pillow my head and fancy I sleep in your arms; and the soft music within that dear church, let me fancy ’tis your sweet voice as you lull me to sleep. I dare not enter yon church, where in youth I worshiped my God.”
See! he lays his head on that cold, hard mound, and sobs like a tired little child, “Oh, mother, I am weary, so weary of life, of toil so bitter and labor so hard. I long for rest, but I am afraid to die.” He pauses, he listens, for within the church a voice speaks slowly and reverently, “Come unto me all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.” The tramp
replies, “Could I but know those words were meant for such a sinner as I!”—and heavy sobs convulse his poor, wretched frame.
Now the choir sings:
“Go tell it to Jesus, He knoweth thy grief,
Go tell it to Jesus, He’ll send thee relief;
Go gather the sunshine He sheds on the way,