Présentation de l'éditeur
Which, wreathed with flowers, in churchyards stand, To tell of mothers bitter losses, And little saints in Better Land. Nor dwell we on those crosses olden, Whereon the infant martyrs died, When meekly soft, small hands were holden, Like Jesus to be crucified. Nay, ours is but a simple story Of Christian life in childhoods morn, When Jesus trains the heir of glory, Through daily trials rightly borne. Each little burden he will measure, He knows what weight each lamb can bear; He plans each tiny grief and pleasure, With his own loving, tender care.
(Typographical errors above are due to OCR software and don't occur in the book.)
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