"Oh, Mother, yes, I feel His power, E'en as I see yon gentle ray; His blessed voice now says 'Thoul't be In Paradise with me this day.'"

Joy filled this waiting mother's heart; "Let us to God the glory give." They knelt in humble, grateful prayer, For Jesus bade that sinner live.

And Angels hov'ring o'er the scene, Clapped their glad wings and flew to Heav'n To strike anew their golden harps, For peace on earth and sin forgiv'n.

And the rapt seraphs round the throne, Loud anthems to the Saviour raise; While cherubims with transport burn, And Heav'ns high dome resounds with praise.

And when the hangman's task was done, Joy filled the stricken mother's breast. She felt her dear misguided son, Through Jesus' blood, had sunk to rest.

And while she linger'd on the earth, Glory to God was hourly given, For that mysterious spirit's birth, That makes the soul an heir of Heav'n.

Picture No. IV.

CONTENTS

In agony a mother knelt Beside her wasted pulseless child; "Give, oh, give him back to me," She cried, in accents stern and wild.

That prayer was heard, the answer came: The feeble pulse revived again; And quick the crimson tide of life Flowed warmly back through every vein.

Yet, though the mother saw the change, No praise unto her God was given; No grateful incense from that heart Ascended up to pitying heaven.

'Twas midnight's deep and silent hour, When nature folds her hands to sleep, And Angels come to bathe the flowers, With dewy tears they only weep.

She heeded not the pulse of time That throbb'd the moments of the night, Nor yet the early morning's dawn, That ting'd the east with rosy light.

But with a mother's earnest eye, Watch'd o'er her infant's peaceful rest: Until his gentle slumber passed, Then clasp'd him fondly to her breast.

Childhood's brief years in sin were spent; The stubborn knee ne'er bent in prayer; Those lips ne'er spake a Saviour's name, "Our Father" never lingered there.

Youth's golden season, too, was passed In wanton 

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