The Falsehood

The Falsehood
1919

Each morn he lies in his trundle bed
And sees the great sun rise,
He shakes the curls of his golden hend
And rubs his sleepy eyes:
Then softly steals across the floor
And climbs upon my knee
“Is mudder here?” he asks once more
“Why won’t she tum to me?”

I cannot tell the little boy
She died the other day:
Brush aside a mist of tears,
And answer: “Gone away”
Then off he runs for his horse and drum,
And shouts aloud in glee:
“I’ll wide my horse and pway at war
Tiit mudder tums to me”

Again, at night, when the little boy
Ascends the oaken stair
And, kneeling, folds his baby hands,
He breathes her name in prayer,
“Dear Dod, pwease bwing my mudder home”
I hear him softly pray
“Yes God will bring her home to you
In the morning, dear” Jy

The tears that fell for Lazarus
May fall for me today
And Christ who died for human men
Will blot that Ile away:
For, through the dark of coming years
A day is breaking dim,
When the tender light of eternal dawn
Will bring her home to him
-Baltimore News,