WHETHER the days are warm and bright, 

Or airs are keen and cold, 

We see him on the pavement sit, 

A beggar blind and old. 

His hat is in his outstretched hand— 

Leaving his white locks bare— 

That now and then a passer-by 

May drop a penny there. 

The crowds go on with hurrying feet, 

And with indifferent eyes, 

Though little children pause to gaze 

In pity and surprise. 

I ponder bow, when Jesus walked 

Upon the earth, and heard 

The blind man at the wayside cry, 

His loving heart was stirred; 

And how, though care for all the world 

Weighed on him like a chain, 

His patient ear could wait to hear 

That humble voice of pain'. 

And then, how his compassionate touch 

Fell on the withered sight, 

'Till long-sealed, helpless lids once more 

Were open to the light. 

Aye, day by day, on mart and street, 

And all along our ways, 

Come up the self-same sufferings 

That met our Master's gaze. 

The same as then is need and room 

To heal and cheer and bless, 

If we but carry in our breasts 

His heart of tenderness. 

—S. S. Times.