He Shall Gather The Lambs In His Arms

ONCE I wandered on a mountain;

Wildly blew the chilling blast,

And the sky, all cold and cheerless,

Was with leaden clouds o'ercast.

Soon a stifled cry of sorrow

Sounded on the wintry air;

Could it be some lonely sufferer

Had been left to perish there?

Still that cry, so low and wailing,

Filled with care my anxious heart;

It must be some tender lambkin

Wandered from the flock apart.

And I thought, "Surely, the shepherd

Of the sheep will grieve to know

That the lamb is in the darkness,

In the bitter cold and snow."

Then again I listened; faintly

I could hear the shepherd's cry,

"I have heard thee; I am coming;

I will save thee ere thou die."

So the little one was folded

To the gentle shepherd's breast,

And its cry was hushed in gladness;

It had found its long-sought rest.

0 my soul, thou, too, hast wandered,

And the Saviour seeks for thee;

Stay not here on the bleak mountains;

To his arms for refuge flee.

Colder, fiercer, blows the tempest;

Thou wilt perish here alone!

All the flock is sheltered safely;

None will hear thy bitter moan.

Saviour, Saviour, come and fold me

Closely to thy gentle breast;

Let my cry be hushed in gladness;

Let me find in thee my rest.

Helen L. Smith.