Out In The Rain

The night is dark and cold, a beating rain Falls ceaselessly upon the dripping roof; The dismal wind, with now a fierce, wild shriek, And now a hollow moan, as if in pain, Circles the eaves, and bends the tortured trees that wring Their long, bear hands in the bleak blast. Within Our chamber all is bright and warm. The fire Burns with a ruddy blaze. The shaded lamp Softens the pictures on the wall, and glows Upon the flowers in the carpet, till they seem All fresh and fragrant. Stretched upon the rug, His collar gleaming in the fire-light, little Pip Is sleeping on, defiant of the storm without. The very furniture enjoys the warmth, And from its sides reflects the cheerful light. Up in its painted cage, the little bird, His yellow head beneath his soft, warm wing, Is hiding. Oh! my God, out in the storm Our little yellow head is beaten by the rain. So lonely looks that precious little face Up at the cold, dark coffin’s lid above, In the bleak graveyard’s solitude! Oh! Ethel darling, do you feel afraid? Or is Christ with you in your little grave? When last we gazed upon those lovely eyes They looked so tranquil, in their last repose, We knew that Christ’s own tender hand had sealed Their lids with His eternal peace. Oh! darling, are you happy up in heaven? And do the angels part that golden hair As tenderly as we? O Saviour dear, Thou knowest childhood’s tenderness. Amid The care of countless worlds, sometimes descend From thine almighty throne of power, and find That little yellow head, and lay it on thy breast, And smooth her brow with thine own pierced hand; She’ll kiss the wound and try to make it well. And tell her how we love her memory here; And let her sometimes see us, that she may Remember us. O Jesus, we can trust Her to thy care; and when we lay us down To rest, beside that lonely, little grave, Oh! let her meet us with her harp. God help us both to make that meeting sure!