There’s a picture fair and bright,
Hanging still on memory’s wall:
There I see my father take the Book divine;
Dear home faces gathered round,
As the shadows softly fall,
And a light from out the pages seems to shine.
Dear old Book, precious Book,
On thy pages soiled and worn I love to look!
O thou balm for hearts that ache,
For my sainted mother’s sake,
Thou art dearer day by day, thou blessèd Book!
While I look, the pictures change,
And I see my mother’s face;
In her hand the Bible, worn and stained with tears;
But the light is shining still,
And within the hallowed place
There is comfort for earth’s griefs and doubts and fears.
O the blessèd days of old,
When I felt my mother’s hand,
With its tender touch of love upon my head,
While the old, old, story sweet,
Which a child can understand,
From the pages of the Book divine she read.
When I long for voices hushed,
And the touch of vanished hands,
In the darkness when death’s angel spreads his wing,
Let me turn to mother’s Book,
With its comforts and commands,
For the peace and hope its blessèd pages bring!