The L'Anse sentinel. (L'Anse, L.S., Mich.) 18??-current, 1900-04-07

L
lamb safely anyhow, whether you have
been faithful or unfaithful but would
il not have been pleasanter if you could
have heard from those lips the praises
of Christ? never read anything more
beautiful than this about child's de-
parture: The account said: "She fold
ed her hands, kissed her mother good
| by, sang her hymn, turned her face to
the wall, said her little prayer and then
died"
Oh il ! could gather up in one para
graph the last words OF the little
ones who have gone out from these
Christian circles, and ] could picture
the calm looks and the folded hands
and sweet departure. methinks il would
be grand and beautiful as one Of Ieav-
ems great doXologies! In my parish in
Philadelphia little child was depart
ing. She had been sick all rdays and
"A cripple. 1t was MONDAY when she
went. and. as the shadow of death
gathered on her eyelid she thought il
was evening and time to go to bed, and
so she said; Good night. papa. Good
night, mammal and then she was
gone! 1t was n goodnight" to pain
and goodnight" TO tears and good
night" TO death and goodnight to
earth, but ii was 'good- mornng" to
Jesus - it was Woodworking" to
Heaven. can think of no cradle song
more beautiful than Jesus.
| next speak of Christ as the old
mans song. Quick music loses its
charm for the aged ear. The school
girl asks for a schottish or glee, but
her grandmother asks for "Raerma"
or The Portuguese Hymn" Fifty years
of trouble have tanned the spirit, and
the keys of the music board must have
n solemn tread. Though the voice may
be tremuous so that grandfather will
not trust il in church. still he has the
psalm book open before him, and he
sings with his soul. He huns his
grandchild asleep with the same tune
he sang 10 years ago in the old country
meeting house. Some day the choir
pie do not know it. but il starts the
tears down the checks of the aged man.
for il reminds him Of the revival scene
in which he participated and of the ra-
diant faces that long since went to
dust and Of the gray-haired minister
leaning over the pulpit and sounding
the good tidings of great joy.
| speak to YOU again of Jesus as the
night song. job speaks of him who
giveth songs in the night John
Welch, the old Scotch minister used
TO put plaid across his bed on cold
nights. and some one asked him why
he put that there. He said: "Oh,
sometimes in the night | want to sing
the praise OF Jesus and to get down
and pray. Then just take that plaid
and wrap il around me TO keep my
self from the cold" Songs in the
night. Night of trouble has come
down upon many of you. Commercial
losses put out one star, slanderous
abuse puts out another star, domestic
bereavement has put out 1000 lights,
and gloom has been added to gloom
and chill to chill and sting TO sting,
and one midnight has seemed TO bor-
row the fold from another midnight
to wrap itself in more unbearable
darkness, but Christ has spoken peace
to your heart. and you sing:
Jesus, lover of my soul
Let me to thy bosom fly,
While the pillows near me roll
While the tempest still IL high.
liidG me, o my Saviour! Hide
TIL the storm of life Il past,
Safe into the haven guide;
oh, receive my soul at last
Songs in the night! Songs in the
night! For the sick. who have no one
to turn the hot pillow, no one to put
the taper on the stand, no one to put
ice on the temples or pour out tho
soothing anodyne or utter one cheer
full word. Yet songs in the night!
For the poor who freeze in the win-
tcr's cold and swelter in the sum
mcrs heat and MUNICH the hard crusts
that bleed the sore gums and SILVER
er be patched and tremble because
rent day is come and they may be
set out on the sidewalk and looking
into the starved face of the child and
seeing famine there and death there
coming home from the bakery and
saying in the presence of the little
famishcd ones: "Oh, my God, flour
has gone up" Yet songs in the
night! Songs in the night! For the
widow who goes to get the back pay
of her husband, slain by the sharp
Shooters" and knows it is the last
help she will have, moving out of
comfortable home in desolation. death
turning back from the eXhaustng
cough and the pale cheek and the
lusterless eye and refusing all relief.
Yet songs in the night! Songs in
the night. For the soldier in The
field hospital, no surgeon to bind up
the gunshot fracture. no water for
the hot lips, no kind hand to brush
away the flies from the fresh wound.
no one to take the loving farewell,
the grooming of others poured into
his own groan, the blasphemy OF
Others blowing up his own spirit, the
condensed bitterness of dying away
from home among strangers. Yet
songs in the night! Songs in the
night! "Ah!" said one dying soldier,
tell my mother that last night there
was not one cloud between my soul