(To the memory of Alma, a little niece, born September 12th, 1888, died May 30th, 1891. An angel.)
‘Twas in the bleak September,
The flowers were gone;
When our loving flower,
Dear Alma was born.
The flowers came and went,
And came and left once more;
But when they came again,
Alma thought she’d go.
I asked myself the question,
“Why take one so dear?”
Spoke my heart full sadly,
“The answer is not here.”
God hath his mysteries,
Ways that we cannot tell;
He hides them deep like a sleep,
Of them he loves so well.
She had played, and needed
A little wayside rest;
Could she have found a better place
Than her dear Savior’s breast?
Her earthly mission was love
To and from ev’ry one,
She’s gone to be rewarded,
In lands beyond the sun.
Sleep on, precious Alma,
Take your eternal rest,
Mama and papa’re coming
To take you to their breast.
Weep not beloved parents,
The Lord, He knoweth best,
Your child’s not dead but sleeping
In God’s angelic nest.
She was radiant in beauty,
Perfect, glorious, bright,
God wanted her for a setting
In His crown of light.
When the dead now sleep in Jesus,
Rise in forms that are fair,
Then shall we meet our jewel,
Our treasure rich and rare.
Our diamond, sapphire, our ruby,
Our dear little opal of love,
Our pearl, most precious jewel,
We’ll meet her in heaven above.
(Frank Barbour Coffin)
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