Sweet Willy
A hundred moons and more have past,
Since erst upon this day,
They bore thee from my anguished sight,
And from my home away
And pensively they carried thee
And set the burial stone,
And left thy father and myself
Forsaken and alone.
A hundred moons have more have past
And every year have we
With pious steps gone out to sit
Beneath the graveyard tree
And, often with remembrance
Of our darling little boy
Repeated—“they that sow in tears
“Shall reap again in joy.”
Lo! children are a heritage
A fruit and a reward,
Bestowed in sovereign mercy
By the fecit of the Lord
But he, that giveth gifts to men
May take away the same
And righteous is the holy act,
And blessed be his name.
For still it is a mercy,
And a mercy we can view,
For whom the Lord chastiseth
He in love regardeth too.
And sweetly in remembrance
Of our darling little boy
Bethink we still, that sorrow’s tears
Shall spring in beds of joy.
And aye, that Word is precious
As the apple of the eye
That looketh up to mansions
Which are builded in the sky
That pallet with this scene of tears
And vanities and strife,
And seeketh for that better home
Where truly there is life.
I cling no more to life below,
It hath no charm for me,
Yet strive to fill my duty here,
While here below I be.
And often comes the memory
Of my darling little boy,
For he was sown in bitter tears,
And shall be reaped in joy.