THE
DEAR LITTLE HEADS IN THE PEW.
IN the morn of the holy Sabbath,
I like in the church to see
The dear little children clustered,
Worshiping there with me.
I am sure that the gentle pastor,
Whose words are like summer dew,
Is cheered as he gazes over
The dear little heads in the pew.
Thoughtful and earnest faces,
Innocent, grave and sweet,
They look in the congregation,
Like lilies among the wheat.
And I think that the tender Master,
Whose mercies are ever new,
Has a special benediction
For the dear little heads in the pew.
Clear in the hymns resounding
To the organ's swelling chord,
Mingle the fresh young voices,
Eager to praise the Lord;
And I trust that the rising anthem
Has a meaning deep and true,
The thought and the music blended
For dear little heads in the pew.
When they hear, "The Lord is my Shepherd,"
Or, "Suffer the babes to come,"
They are glad that the loving Jesus
Has given the lambs a home;
A place of their own with his people,
He cares for me and for you,
But close in his arms he gathers
The dear little heads in the pew.
So I love, in the great assembly,
On the Sabbath morn, to see
The dear little children clustered,
And worshiping there with me;
For I know that my precious Saviour,
Whose mercies are ever new,
Has a special benediction
For the dear little heads in the pew.
Advance