When a Little Baby Dies

When a little baby dies

And its wee form silent lies,

And its little cheeks seem waxen

And its little hands are still,

Then your soul gives way to treason,

And you cry: “O, God, what reason,

O, what justice and what mercy

Have You shown us by Your will?

“There are, O, so many here

Of the yellow leaf and sere,

Who are anxious, aye, and ready

To respond unto Your call;

Yet You pass them by unheeding,

And You set our hearts to bleeding!

“O,” you mutter, “God, how cruel

Do Your vaunted mercies fall!”

Yet some day, in after years,

When Death's angel once more nears,

And the unknown, silent river

Looms as darkly as a pall,

You will hear your baby saying,

“Mamma, come to me, I'm staying

With my arms outstretched to greet you,”

And you'll understand it all.