“Sing 'O Lord, my God,'” he answered. And then, over the murmuring voice of the river, above the low wail of the rising wind, the girl's sweet, solemn voice, deep with tenderness and tears, sang the simple old hymn,—
O Lord, my God,
A broken heart
Is all my part:
Spare not Thy rod,
That I may prove
Therein Thy love.
“Ey, ey,” repeated Garth, “a broken heart is all my part.”
Very tremulous was the voice of the singer as she sang,—
O Lord, my God,
Or ere I die,
And silent lie
Beneath the sod,
Do Thou make whole
This bruisèd soul.
“This bruised soul,” murmured the blacksmith.
Rotha had stopped, and buried her face in her hands.
“There's another verse, Rotha; there's another verse.”
But the singer could sing no more. Then the dying man himself sang in his feeble voice, and with panting breath,—
Dear Lord, my God—
Weary and worn,
Bleeding and torn—
Spare now Thy rod.
Sorely distressed—
Lord, give me rest.