If you would but take the ills of life, the losses, the sorrow vain,
To the One whose ear is open to hear each cry of pain!
You are thinking now of Willie, the boy we loved so well,
And who left his home to wander—whither—Ah, who can tell!
His room stands just as he left it—I go upstairs each day
And smooth the pillows with my hands, and for my darling pray.
He may not have—sometimes my heart grows fairly sick with dread—
In cold, or storm, or in sickness, a place to lay his head.
My heart would break did I not know the Father of us all
Stoops down to make my sorrow less, counts all the tears that fall.
You will not turn where comfort lies, towards Him you will not move,
O husband, give the Lord your heart—prove, prove His faithful love.”
“If I had sought the Lord,” said he, “when youth and strength were mine,
I might have had to cheer me now as dear a faith as thine.
But God is just, His laws so stern, I’ve broken year by year,
God is a judge—I feel that now—just, holy, and severe.
I scorn to seek Him after all the years I’ve walked in sin—
’Tis too near to life’s ending now for me to just begin.
My heart lies heavy in my breast, but I must bear my load,
My pride has kept me all along a sad and dreary road.