At a palace of pleasure,
A few years ago,
Where rich folks resorted,
And passed to and fro,
A skeptic and others
Were dining at ease,
While waiters around them
Sought humbly to please;
When, suddenly rising
In richness and grace,
Came a pure childish voice,
That filled all the place.
The diners were startled,
From whence came the sound?
At the door stood a child,
Bare feet on the ground.
Her clothes were all ragged,
Her figure forlorn,
A sight in our city
To make angels mourn,
But, oh, on her face such
A flush, sweet and grand,
As sweetly she sang
Of the bright, happy land.
“There is a happy land, Far, far away,
Where saints in glory stand,
Bright, bright as day.
Oh, how they sweetly sing,
Worthy is the Saviour King!
Loud let His praises ring;
Praise, praise for aye.”
The waiter was angry;
He rushed to the door.
“Be off, you young urchin,
Don’t come any more!”
He turned back disgusted,
No thought of that song;
No thought of the singer
As he hurried along.
“How dare you act harshly?”
The skeptic cried out,
“What harm was she doing?”
He said with a shout,
“Recall her at once, sir,
And bring her to me;
That singing was lovely,
The child I would see.”
They brought the child to him,
She sang the sweet strain,
“There is a happy land,”
To him once again.
The guests all around them
Were thrilled with delight;
The singing was lovely,
The singer a sight!
“My dear,” said the skeptic,
“Your voice is divine,
But the theme of your song
Is no faith of mine.
There’s no life beyond death,
No land bright and fair.”
“Why, sir,” said the singer,
“My mother is there!”
“Your mother? Oh, well, child,
’Tis merely a dream;
None other is with her,
Or heaven has seen.”
“Why, sir, you’re mistaken;
In that happy land,
My Saviour is with them!
It’s beautiful, grand.”
“And father and I, sir,
Will soon join the throng,
To sing with the ransomed,
To join in their song.
No sorrow, nor crying,
No hunger, nor pain,
But ever with Jesus;
To praise His blest Name!”
The skeptic, still smiling,
Said, “Where is your home?”
“With Father, at Hoxton;
We live all alone;
But father is sick,
He can’t leave his bed,
And I earn our living,
By singing,” she said.
“Poor child! Take me with you;
Your father I’ll see;
Now, don’t be afraid,
But come home with me.”
They came to the attic
Where, dying, was laid
The father, kept cheerful
By that little maid.
The skeptic (a good man),
Was pricked to the heart;
At the sight of their love
The tear drops would start.
He paid for the father
To have every care,
And a home for the child,
That singer so fair.
The father sank lower,
Alas! he soon died;
For T. B. had claimed him,
Would not be denied.
The skeptic, still loving
That sweet little maid,
Prepared for her future,
While she for him prayed.
But, alas! the exposure
Of her little form,
While singing for father,
Her garments all torn
Its fatal seeds sowed
In her feeble frame,
And soon that young singer
Would be but a name.
The skeptic was troubled,
He sent her to stay
At a good nursing home;
But she faded away.
And there many moments
He spent by her side.
Alas! the sweet singer
Sank lower, and died.
But, as she lay dying,
She said, “Shall I sing
My own little song, that
To you did me bring?”
“Oh, yes!” he exclaimed,
As he took her hand.
Then she sang once again
Of that happy land.
The voice was so feeble,
But oh, it was grand;
So sure to that maiden,
Her place in that land.
His eyes filled with tears,
No words could he speak,
No feeling of comfort
From it could he seek.
She raised her frail form,
She gazed in his face,
And then, with a smile of
Ineffable grace,
Said, “Mother has gone there,
And Jesus’s there too,
And I’m going to them,
But what will you do?
Won’t you come to Jesus?
To that happy land?
Won’t you love and serve Him
With that happy band?”
Then feebly she sang,
Her heart in the song,
Increasing in fervour,
As she went along:
“Come to that happy land,
Come, come away;
Why will you doubting stand?
Why still delay?
Oh! we shall happy be,
When from sin and sorrow free,
Lord, we shall live with Thee,
Blest, blest for aye.”
The singer had finished
(Her life scarce begun);
She lay down, ceased breathing;
Her work, it was done.
But, oh, the sweet gesture
Of love, e’er life fled!
The strong man was humbled,
The singer was dead.
He pleaded for mercy,
To One, who in love,
To save wretched sinners,
Came down from above,
And was he rejected?
Oh! infinite grace!
The sinner was pardoned,
In Christ he found peace.
She was laid in the grave,
Her body at rest;
Her soul with her loved ones,
And Him she loved best.
The strong man sought guidance
In prayer at the throne,
To serve best her Saviour
He claimed as his own.
He lived to declare Him,
Whom long he disowned;
The blessed Lord Jesus
His heart had enthroned.
He told oft how Jesus
Came down from the sky,
In tenderest pity,
To suffer and die.
He told how poor sinners
Before Him can stand,
In perfect acceptance,
In that happy land;
Redeemed by His blood,
On that happy shore,
Their sins and iniquities
Remembered no more.
ML-05/26/1974