Mrs. S. A. Collins




by Mrs. S. A. Collins

It is Sabbath in my quiet home,

      The day wherein we rest,

Our thoughts of course are wont to roam

      To friends we love the best.

I sit and wonder why it is

      That many hearts are sad,

While others, burning o'er with joy,

      Makes all around them glad'?

I think of this and then of that;

      Sorrows we can't avoid,

And then again of wickedness,

      Where Satan seems employed,

Of course death visits every home,

      And saddens hearts as well;

While God alone knows why the cause,

      Which tongue can never tell.

And sickness often causes sorrow,

      Bearing with it sighs and pain;

Oft forgetting that the morrow,

      May bring health and joy again.

But me thinks the greatest sorrow

      Mother earth e'er witnessed here,

Is the low degrading manhood,

      Sinking lower from year to year.

Fathers, who should stop and think

      Of the sorrow sure to come

To the wives and little children,

      Through this deadly demon-Rum.

Brothers causing sisters trouble,

      Making them ashamed of men,

And their inconsistent habit

      Of drinking, time and time again.

And the sons which now are breaking

      Mother's hearts with sickening dread,

Fearing in some drunken frenzy,

      Her darling boy will be stricken dead.

Spare, oh, spare me such a sorrow!

      To the Savior is my plea;

Hasten in that happy dawning,

      When all humanity will be free.