Little Sister
With the Lambs of the Upper Fold.
Just before press hour the sorrowful news came that little Mabel Black was dead.
Mabel was seven years old, the only daughter of Mr. and Mrs. J. F. Black.
She was a child of extraordinary beauty, as fair as the vernal morn upon which her gentle spirit was borne on angel wings to the home above, and as bright as the noonday sun which yesterday peeped through the curtains to look upon her marble clay.
To her parents she was the sunbeam that dispelled all darkness and lighted the world with sunny smiles, to her grandparents a well-spring of joy that never failed to all who knew her a flower of joy and a song of gladness.
But little Mabel has been called home, and as these lines are hurriedly written, the delight of what seems a never-ending night rests upon the hearts and lives of those who loved her. Earth hath many sorrows, but none that so deeply tears the heart as the death of a child. Earth never seems such a desert place nor life such a mockery as when the fond parent gazes upon the dimples of childhood frozen in death's embrace, and receives no loving response from affection's holiest kiss.
Fain would the friends of the stricken parents speak words of comfort today, but in a time like this sorrow cannot find surcease, neither can the tenderest words of sympathy palliate grief. The depth of our sympathy for them, as they gather round the marble clay of their darling, we can only compare to the depth of their own affliction. And yet the new life of the trees, the new songs of the birds, tell us in words that we can understand that Mabel is not dead. Dead indeed to us, save as a precious memory, dead to the pangs of suffering that wrapped her little body, dead to all of earth's sorrows, but in the Paradise of God she lives forevermore.
May He who pitieth us all like as a father pitieth his [unreadable] children grant a rich [unreadable] of his grace to all who mourn beside [unreadable] snow-white coffin today.
With the Lambs of the Upper Fold.
Just before press hour the sorrowful news came that little Mabel Black was dead.
Mabel was seven years old, the only daughter of Mr. and Mrs. J. F. Black.
She was a child of extraordinary beauty, as fair as the vernal morn upon which her gentle spirit was borne on angel wings to the home above, and as bright as the noonday sun which yesterday peeped through the curtains to look upon her marble clay.
To her parents she was the sunbeam that dispelled all darkness and lighted the world with sunny smiles, to her grandparents a well-spring of joy that never failed to all who knew her a flower of joy and a song of gladness.
But little Mabel has been called home, and as these lines are hurriedly written, the delight of what seems a never-ending night rests upon the hearts and lives of those who loved her. Earth hath many sorrows, but none that so deeply tears the heart as the death of a child. Earth never seems such a desert place nor life such a mockery as when the fond parent gazes upon the dimples of childhood frozen in death's embrace, and receives no loving response from affection's holiest kiss.
Fain would the friends of the stricken parents speak words of comfort today, but in a time like this sorrow cannot find surcease, neither can the tenderest words of sympathy palliate grief. The depth of our sympathy for them, as they gather round the marble clay of their darling, we can only compare to the depth of their own affliction. And yet the new life of the trees, the new songs of the birds, tell us in words that we can understand that Mabel is not dead. Dead indeed to us, save as a precious memory, dead to the pangs of suffering that wrapped her little body, dead to all of earth's sorrows, but in the Paradise of God she lives forevermore.
May He who pitieth us all like as a father pitieth his [unreadable] children grant a rich [unreadable] of his grace to all who mourn beside [unreadable] snow-white coffin today.
Little Sister
With the Lambs of the Upper Fold.
Just before press hour the sorrowful news came that little Mabel Black was dead.
Mabel was seven years old, the only daughter of Mr. and Mrs. J. F. Black.
She was a child of extraordinary beauty, as fair as the vernal morn upon which her gentle spirit was borne on angel wings to the home above, and as bright as the noonday sun which yesterday peeped through the curtains to look upon her marble clay.
To her parents she was the sunbeam that dispelled all darkness and lighted the world with sunny smiles, to her grandparents a well-spring of joy that never failed to all who knew her a flower of joy and a song of gladness.
But little Mabel has been called home, and as these lines are hurriedly written, the delight of what seems a never-ending night rests upon the hearts and lives of those who loved her. Earth hath many sorrows, but none that so deeply tears the heart as the death of a child. Earth never seems such a desert place nor life such a mockery as when the fond parent gazes upon the dimples of childhood frozen in death's embrace, and receives no loving response from affection's holiest kiss.
Fain would the friends of the stricken parents speak words of comfort today, but in a time like this sorrow cannot find surcease, neither can the tenderest words of sympathy palliate grief. The depth of our sympathy for them, as they gather round the marble clay of their darling, we can only compare to the depth of their own affliction. And yet the new life of the trees, the new songs of the birds, tell us in words that we can understand that Mabel is not dead. Dead indeed to us, save as a precious memory, dead to the pangs of suffering that wrapped her little body, dead to all of earth's sorrows, but in the Paradise of God she lives forevermore.
May He who pitieth us all like as a father pitieth his [unreadable] children grant a rich [unreadable] of his grace to all who mourn beside [unreadable] snow-white coffin today.
With the Lambs of the Upper Fold.
Just before press hour the sorrowful news came that little Mabel Black was dead.
Mabel was seven years old, the only daughter of Mr. and Mrs. J. F. Black.
She was a child of extraordinary beauty, as fair as the vernal morn upon which her gentle spirit was borne on angel wings to the home above, and as bright as the noonday sun which yesterday peeped through the curtains to look upon her marble clay.
To her parents she was the sunbeam that dispelled all darkness and lighted the world with sunny smiles, to her grandparents a well-spring of joy that never failed to all who knew her a flower of joy and a song of gladness.
But little Mabel has been called home, and as these lines are hurriedly written, the delight of what seems a never-ending night rests upon the hearts and lives of those who loved her. Earth hath many sorrows, but none that so deeply tears the heart as the death of a child. Earth never seems such a desert place nor life such a mockery as when the fond parent gazes upon the dimples of childhood frozen in death's embrace, and receives no loving response from affection's holiest kiss.
Fain would the friends of the stricken parents speak words of comfort today, but in a time like this sorrow cannot find surcease, neither can the tenderest words of sympathy palliate grief. The depth of our sympathy for them, as they gather round the marble clay of their darling, we can only compare to the depth of their own affliction. And yet the new life of the trees, the new songs of the birds, tell us in words that we can understand that Mabel is not dead. Dead indeed to us, save as a precious memory, dead to the pangs of suffering that wrapped her little body, dead to all of earth's sorrows, but in the Paradise of God she lives forevermore.
May He who pitieth us all like as a father pitieth his [unreadable] children grant a rich [unreadable] of his grace to all who mourn beside [unreadable] snow-white coffin today.
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