  List! The year was slowly dying In the dark December days, And the winds moaned low and sadly O’er the lonely winter ways. And the hills and vales were lying As when life’s last flush hath fled, Folded in a snowy mantle, Silent, dreamless, cold and dread. Whilst the winds without were grieving O’er the meads and frozen streams, Hearts within were filled with mourning, Near the firelight’s fitful gleams. On a couch of painful anguish, Meek and patient, pale and wan, Hand clasped hand in solemn parting— Dying mother, stricken son. “Dearest mother, are you trusting In the name of Jesus now, As you near the Stygian river With the death damps on your brow? Oh, so cold and dark the waters! Do you fear to enter in? Mother, I shall sadly miss you In this world of care and sin.” “Yes, my boy, I’m fully trusting In the Saviour’s mighty love; And I know His hand will guide me Safely to His courts above. Ah! I hear such holy voices Chanting on the other shore, Filling all my soul with rapture As I’m swiftly sailing o’er.” Thus she passed beyond the river, Far beyond the gleaming bars Of the sunset’s golden glory And the pathway of the stars. And they laid her last cold relics ’Neath the dreary drifting snow, Whilst the winds moaned saddest requiem, Prayerful, solemn, grieved, and low. |
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