SING to the little children, 

And they will listen well; 

Sing grand and holy music,

For they can feel its spell. 

Tell them the tale of Jesus,

Then sing them what he said, 

"Deeper and deeper still," and watch

How the little cheeks grow red, 

And the little breath comes quicker;

They will ne'er forget the tale, 

Which the song has fastened surely, 

As with a golden nail.

I remember late one evening,

How the music stopped; for, hark! 

Charlie's nursery door was open,

He was calling in the dark: 

"Oh, no, I am not frightened,

And I do not want a light; 

But I cannot sleep for thinking

Of the song you sang last night; 

Something about a 'valley,'

And 'make rough places plain,' 

And 'comfort ye;' so beautiful!

Oh, sing it me again!"

Sing at the cottage bedside;

They have no music there, 

And the voice of praise is silent

After the voice of prayer. 

Sing of the gentle Saviour,

In the simplest hymns you know, 

And the pain-dimmed eye will brighten

As the soothing verses flow; 

Better than loudest plaudits

The murmured thanks of such, 

For the King will stop to crown them

With the gracious "Inasmuch."

Sing when the full-toned organ

Resounds through aisle and nave, 

And the choral praise ascendeth

In concord sweet and grave. 

Sing, where the village voices

Fall harshly on your ear; 

And while more earnestly you join,

Less discord will you hear. 

The noblest and the humblest

Alike are "common praise," 

And not for human ear alone,

The psalm and hymn we raise.

Sing in the deepening twilight,

When the shadow of eve is nigh, 

And her purple and golden pinions

Fold o'er the western sky. 

Sing in the silver silence

While the first moonbeams fall, 

So shall your power be greater

Over the hearts of all. 

Sing till you bear them with you

Into a holy calm, 

And the sacred tones have scattered

Manna, and myrrh, and balm.