mm SATURDAY NIGHT
For me the very God came down, Took on Himself a human form, Bore all the sting of sin and strife To give me everlasting life. He came to earth, a baby mild: He came as the Virgin's Holy Child. He thrived, He grew to manhood's state To save me from the sinner's fate. It was for me He wept alone, It was for me His awful groan, That God might spare me bitter pain. For me the Lamb of God was slain. For me the torturous cross He bore, For me the crown of thorns He wore. For me He 'twixt earth and Heaven, For me His precious side was riven. And His life-blood for me was split To save me from sin's dreadful guilt. For me, in years that long have passed, M y suffering Saviour died at last; For me, the blessed dawn arose When Jesus triumphed o'er His foes; Threw off the garments of death's prison, Prepared for His return to Heaven. And shall His sacrifice be vain? Why should I not His love pro- I claim? When God's own Son for me, was I sent. And God's great love bade me re pent? I'll walk with Him within the way; I'll talk with Him from day to day; His blessed Word I'll gladly read. And to His promises take heed. For me, one day His trump He'll sound, And with His own the earth around I We'll rise with Him to realms above I And live forever in His love. — Ella Mae Plainer I
Placing the little hats all in a row Ready for church on the morrow, you know, Washing wee faces and little grimy fists, Getting them ready and fit to be kissed. Putting them into clean garments and white. That is what mothers are doing to night. Spying out rents in little worn hose, Laying by shoes that are worn through the toes. Looking o'er garments so faded and thin. Who but a mother knows where to begin? Changing a button to make it look right, That's what mothers are doing to night. Calling the little ones all 'round her chair, Hearing them lisp forth their soft evening prayer. Telling them stories of Jesus of old, Who loved to gather the lambs of His fold. Watching them listen with childish delight. That is what mothers are doing to night. Creeping so softly to take a last peep, After the little ones are fallen asleep. Anxious to know if the children are warm, Tucking the blankets 'round each little form. Kissing each little face rosy and bright. That is what mothers are doing to night Kneeling down gently beside the white bed, Lowly and meekly she bows down her head, Praying as only a mother can pray, "God guide and keep them from going astray,"
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