LITTLE FEET.

Up from all the city's by-ways, From the breathless, sickening heat, To the wide-swung gate of heaven, Eager throng the little feet. Not a challenge has the warder For these souls so sinless white; Round each brow the Saviour's blessing Circles like a crown of light. See, the Lord Himself stands waiting, Wide His loving arms are spread; On his heart of hearts is pillowed Every weary baby's head. But below, with tear-wet faces, And with hearts all empty grown, Stand the mourning men and women, Vainly calling back their own. Upward floats the voice of mourning— "Jesus, Master, dost thou care?" Aye, He feels each drop of anguish— "He doth all our sorrows bear." Wipe thine eyes, O heavy laden; Look beyond the clouds and see, With your dear one on His bosom, Jesus stands and calls to thee. Waits with yearning, all unfathomed— Love you cannot understand, Lures you upward with the beckoning Of your buried baby's hand.