The Cry Of The Children

The Cry of the Children
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Our hills lie naked, gaunt and gray
With ashes heaped on hearth and head,
We stand in funeral array
And mourn our dead

When fair winds blow we rate as men;
When cities sway and tremble, we Are but
Thy little children then,
Who turn to Thee

Help us to meet each day’s demands
With Thine own strength our hearts endow
We ask Thy blessing on the hands
That help us now

It was our habit, day by day,
To heed Thee not when it was light;
But help us, God, to find our way
Through this-our Night