The Dying Sunday School Boy

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Title:     The Dying Sunday School Boy
Author: Lydia H. Sigourney [More Titles by Sigourney]

His hands were clasp'd, his eyelids clos'd,
As on his couch he lay,
While slumber seem'd to wrap the form
That pain had worn away:

But still the watching mother marked
His pallid lips to part,
As if some all-absorbing thought
Lay on his dreaming heart;

For yet he slept not. Silent prayer
Commun'd with God alone,
And then his glazing eyes he rais'd,
And spoke with tender tone:

"Oh mother! often in my class,
I've heard the teacher say,
That those who to the Saviour turn
He would not cast away;

And so, beside my bed I knelt
While early morn was dim,
Imploring Heaven to teach my soul
The way to turn to Him;

And now, behold! through golden clouds,
A pierced hand I see,
And listen to a glorious Voice,
Arise! and come to Me."

His breath grew faint, but soft and low
The parting whisper sigh'd,
"I come, dear Lord, I come!" and so,
Without a pang he died.

Oh blessed child! with whom the strife
Of fear and care are o'er,
Methinks thine angel smile we see
From yon celestial shore,

And hear thee singing to His praise
Whose boundless mercy gave
Unto thy meek and trusting soul,
The victory o'er the Grave.

[The end]
Lydia H. Sigourney's poem: Dying Sunday School Boy

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