Written for a beloved invalid, whose gift of song amid pain and weakness was constantly used for the Master.
MY sister dear, thy songs are sweet
Amid the deepening shade,
A little captive bird thou art
By Love a prisoner made,
And taught to sing for Him alone
Whose blood thy ransom paid.
A captive did I say thou art,
Sweet singer in the night?
Who then has clipp’d thy wand’ring wing
And stayed thy wayward flight,
And placed thee in thy narrow cage
To warble songs of light?
A pierced Hand it is that clasp’d
The little trembling thing,
And laid it on His tender breast
And taught it how to sing
Far sweeter music to His ear
Than angel harps could bring.
One day the Hand that placed thee there
Thy prison-bars shall break,
And then the captive singing bird
Her upward flight shall take,
To see the One who bade her sing
And suffer for His sake.
Ah, then how sweet, how glad the song
That from her lips shall rise,
As to His loving, glorious Face
She lifts adoring eyes,
While low He whispers to her heart
“Thou art My blood-bought prize.”
Then sing, thou loved one, in the night
Thy lays of faith and love,
To charm His ear who placed thee there,
His gentle captive dove,
Soon perfectly to sing His praise
In brighter spheres above.
EMILY J. A. PEARSON.
THE work of restoring a soul is far more delicate than that of restoring a picture, and it requires such delicate methods as only God by His Holy Spirit can use.