“Mother, mother, tell a story,”
Tiny voices say to me;
Willie seeks his little footstool,
Mabel climbs upon my knee.
Sunday evening twilight gathers,
And upon the parlor wall
Shines the ruddy, dancing firelight,
And the fitful shadows fall.
“Shall my story be of Jesus?
He who loves the, children dear?”
“Jesus, and the little maiden,”
Mabel answers sweet and clear.
Then the little faces brighten;
Closer little Willie comes,
As I tell of Christ, the Saviour,
And His love for little ones.
Once there was a stately mansion
Decked with many a treasure rare;
And within that beauteous dwelling
Lay a little maiden fair.
Twelve years old that little maiden—
Youth’s bright days had just begun;
But with all so fair around her,
Dying lay the little one.
All a father’s love could bring her,
And a mother’s tender care,
Had been lavished on their darling
As she lay so helpless there.
Many a loved one thronged around her,
Eager each to soothe and cheer;
Weaker grew the little maiden,
Death was drawing very near.
But no wise physician’s presence,
Or the virtues of his art,
To the lovely little maiden
Health or healing could impart.
Then the father thought of Jesus—
“He can save my child!” he cried;
“He can cure my little daughter;
I will hasten to His side.”
Forth he goes upon his journey,
Heeding not the toilsome way,
Till he finds the blessed Jesus,
And his weary footsteps stay.
At His feet he falls before Him:
Will the Saviour deign to hear
Of the little dying maiden—
Of his little daughter dear?
Yes, the loving Jesus listens,
And His look is soft and mild;
“Only lay Thy hands upon her,”
Prays the father for his child.
And the blessed, blessed Saviour
Answers to the parent’s cry:
“I will come unto the dwelling
Where the little maid doth lie.”
As they journey Jesus pauses,
Hears another tale of woe;
Throngs the eager crowd around Him
As they seek His gifts to know.
And the father’s heart beats faster,
For he sees his servants come;
Surely they have brought some tidings
Of the little one at home!
“Trouble not the Master further,
It is useless now!” they say;
“For thy little daughter lieth
In the sleep of death today.”
Lo! the Saviour hears them telling
How the little maid had died;
“Fear not!” says He to the father,
As He journeys by his side.
Now they near the stately dwelling,
Sounds of bitter woe are there;
Sounds of grief and bitter wailing,
Mourning for the maiden fair.
See the Saviour cross the threshold,
Now His gentle footsteps stay;
Enters He the silent chamber
Where the little maiden lay.
Hark! He speaketh to the mourners:
“Weep not! make not such ado,
For the maiden only sleepeth;
Life and health I can renew.”
But His words seem strange and wondrous,
Such before were never heard;
And they rudely mock and scorn Him,
Though they marvel at His word.
Then the blessed, blessed Jesus
Speaks again in accents mild:
“Put them forth from out the chamber,
They must leave the little child;
But the father and the mother
And My own disciples two,
They may stay with Me and witness
What I am about to do.”
Pass they out in silent wonder,
His behests they must obey;
For the Lord of earth and heaven
In their presence stood that day.
While the father and the mother
Gaze upon the Saviour there,
Standing in the silent chamber
By the maid so still and fair.
Scarcely can they breathe for wonder
As the matchless sight they see;
For He speaketh to the maiden—
“Damsel, rise, I say to thee!”
See! the little sleeper wakens,
And her eyes from death unclose;
Oh! the joy of father, mother,
As the little maid “arose.”
To her parents Jesus gives her,
With a word of loving cheer;
How He loves the little children!
Every child to Him is dear.
He would have them all obedient,
He would bless them full and free,
As He blessed the little maiden
On the shores of Galilee.
Jesus died from sin to save them,
Life eternal He will give;
“Come to Me, dear little children,
Those who come to Me shall live.”
Thus He speaks to little children,
May my gracious darlings here
Know His voice, and answer sweetly,
“I am coming, Saviour dear.”
Like the little maid, obedient
To the Saviour’s loving call;
And in answer to His message
Gladly at His feet to fall.
May my Mabel, may my Willie,
Listen to that voice divine;
May they say this Sunday evening,
“Make us children, Lord, of Thine.”
ML 04/22/1917