The Sabbath morn dawns o’er the mountain brow,
And lights the earth with glory soft and mild
Oh, think’st thou, dearest mother, even now
Of me, thy youngest and most wayward child?
For this, my mother, is the sacred hour
When thou didst bid me ever think of thee
Oh, surely nothing earthly could have power
To break the spell which hallows it to me.
Thy loving look, thy feeble voice, I seem,
Though years have passed, to see and hear again.
Not as the shadowy fancies of a dream,
But as distinct, as vivid now as then.
‘When in my Saviour’s glorious home I dwell,
Forget not this my last request to thee
When soundeth forth the early Sabbath bell,
Where’er thou art, my Fanny, think of me!’
Oh, why was this thy dying wish—thy last?
Thou would’st not think that I should e’er forget
My mother’s love, that passing years might cast
A cloudy veil, where that bright star did set;
But well thou knew’st I could not think of thee
Without remembering Him with whom thou art,
To whom thou oft didst pray so fervently
That I might give my wandering, wilful heart.
I must remember too the joyful faith
Which filled thy soul e’en in thy dying hour,
And led thee calmly through the vale of death;
There I must ever see its wondrous power.
I could not but fulfil thy last desire,
The last sweet echo of thy loving voice,
Calling my mind each Sabbath morning higher,
Where thou in endless Sabbath dost rejoice.
Oft when I wavered, slipped, and nearly fell,
Yet stunned and giddy heeded not my fate,
The fatal charm was broken by that bell,
Thy memory oped my eyes ere yet too late.
And oft when sad and hopeless seemed my way,
Its sweet sound told me of the victory
Which thy bright faith hath gained, and then a ray
Of hope hath whispered, ‘Such may be for thee.’
Oh, ’twas a mother’s love which did devise
This gentle way of helping her child’s soul;
Not on earth only, but from yon bright skies
To aid her steps towards the heavenly goal.
Oh, Thou who dwellest with Thy ransomed, where
The one long Sabbath ne’er may darkly close,
By Thy rich mercy grant this earliest prayer,
Which oft for me from her dear lips arose.
Bring me, oh, bring me to Thy house of light,
That there with my loved mother I may dwell,
And e’er rejoicing in Thy presence bright,
May praise Thy love, who doest all things well.
By Frances Ridley Havergal
Photo: Joanna, my niece, surprised me by stopping by last night unexpectedly to bring me a small cheesecake and roses. Her dear heart wanted me to know she loves me and is praying for me as I adjust to our one and only’s absence.
Yes, I sobbed, she hugged me tight, and we both cried! Wish I’d taken her picture! 🥰
