Their hands in prayer were folded
Ere they laid them down to rest,
And on rosy lip and soft white brow
Were a mother's kisses pressed.
They sleep and dream of angels;
Ah! well may their dreams be fair!--
Their home is now so like a heaven,
They seem already there.
But where are the children sleeping
In these wretched streets around,
Where sin, and want, and sorrow
Their choicest haunt have found?
Will you climb this broken staircase,
And glance through this shattered door;
Oh, can there be children sleeping
On that filthy and crowded floor?
Yes! old and young together,
A restless, moaning heap;
O God! while they thus are sleeping,
How dare Thy children sleep?
Does the night air make you shiver,
As the stream sweeps coldly by?
(Cold as the hearts of the heedless),
Here, too, do the children lie.
An archway their only shelter;
The pavement their nightly bed;
Thou, too, when on earth, dear Saviour,
Hadst nowhere to lay _Thy_ head.
So we know Thou art here, dear Master,
Thy form we can almost see;
Do we tear Thy sad voice saying,
"Ye did it not to Me?"
Yes, chill is the wind-swept archway,
The pavement is cold and hard
Better the workhouse coffin,
Softer the graveyard sward.
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