Yet there is a pile of stockings to darn;
They must be ready for Sunday morn.
Baby is cold, I must get her warm,
And put her to sleep with a long, long song.
They must be ready for Sunday morn.
Baby is cold, I must get her warm,
And put her to sleep with a long, long song.
We both fall asleep, so tired, I say,—
Me of my work, she of her play.
We have both reached the end of our day,
And I am tired, yes, too tired to pray.
Me of my work, she of her play.
We have both reached the end of our day,
And I am tired, yes, too tired to pray.
As I lay my weary, worthless head
(That aches, and feels as heavy as lead)
Upon the soft pillow of my bed,
I am so tired:— my prayers are unsaid.
(That aches, and feels as heavy as lead)
Upon the soft pillow of my bed,
I am so tired:— my prayers are unsaid.
But I 'dreamed I saw my husband's face,
Full of yearning, love and tender grace;
His hand in mine he gently placed,
And showed me heaven in quiet haste.
Full of yearning, love and tender grace;
His hand in mine he gently placed,
And showed me heaven in quiet haste.
I saw my dear Father sitting there,
And angels around with waving hair,
Singing hymns so sweet and clear,—
Surprised I was, but did not fear.
And angels around with waving hair,
Singing hymns so sweet and clear,—
Surprised I was, but did not fear.
As he took me along so very near,
My own sad face did there appear,
And down my cheek there fell a tear,
For my poor, weak voice I could hear.
My own sad face did there appear,
And down my cheek there fell a tear,
For my poor, weak voice I could hear.
