Classic Poem

Two waifs upon the stream of time,
Outcasts, without a home or name,
Born in the haunts of sin and crime,
Heirs to a heritage of shame;
Two wandering Arabs of the street,
With tattered clothes and bare, brown feet.

One, crushed and mangled till the life
Was slowly ebbing from his heart;
The other, racked with fever's strife,
Beyond the healing power of art.
Their pallid faces nestled there,
Framed in a mass of tawny hair.

One murmured, with a plaintive sigh:
" Say, Bobby, did you ever hear
Of Jesus? Maybe when you die
He'll come and take you up from here
To Heaven, and there you wont be poor,
Nor cold, nor hungry any more.

" At mission school I heard 'em say
He goes about a-doing good,
And if you'd ask Him, night or day,
He'd come and help you all He could.
Who knows but He'll come round to-night —
And you would know Him, Bob, at sight. "

" No, " said the boy, whose eyes grew dim,
" I don't know where the man might be;
And a great gentleman like Him
Would hardly stop to speak to me;
But if He comes around, I'll try.
To ax Him — doctor says I'll die.

" I never heard of Him before;
But, Bill, if I could only walk,
I'd try to find him. Shut the door;
It hurts me so I can not talk. "
" Then, Bobby, just hold up your hand,
And if He comes He'll understand. "

Up went the trembling hand to tell
Needs that the white lips could not speak,
Fluttered a moment there and fell —
Went up again; but, ah! too weak
Was little Bob to hold it there;
And then he wept in his despair.

" Don't try it, Bobby, " said his friend;
" Give me your hand; I'll fix it up. "
And with his pillow, end to end,
He deftly improvised a prop;
And all night long the voiceless prayer
Of that small hand was offered there.

And when the morning looked abroad,
And sunbeams kissed that silent bed,
The hand still pointed up to God,
And little pauper Bob was dead.
But, by his face so calm and fair,
Men knew that Jesus had been there.