The Dying Child

The Dying Child.
96.4

Go open wide the door, mother.
And let the angela in:
For they are bright and fair, mother,
So pure and free from sin.
I hear them speak my name, mother,
They sweetly whisper come
Oh let the angels in, mother,
For they will take me home.

I know that death has come, mother,
His hand is on my brow
You cannot keep me here, mother,
For I am dying now.
The room is growing dark, mother,
Itut for me do not weep
For it is sweet to die, mother,
Like sluking into sleep.

I’m dying now, dear mother.
But shen no fruitless tears:
It saves me from all aches, mother,
And you from many fears.
Look upward and your child you’ll sсе,
Fixed in Ite blest abode
What parent would not chilies be
To give a chlia to God.

Now I must say farewell, mother,
For I am going home:
Now open wide the door, mother,
And let the angels come.
And let them bear me far away.
Up to a world of love.
The city where the angeis stay.
A brighter world above.