The church-bells for service are ringing,
The parents gone forth on their way,
And here on the door-step are sitting
Three golden-haired children at play.
The darlings, untiring and restless,
Are still for the service too small;
But yet they would fain be as pious
As parents and uncles and all.
So each from a hymn-book is singing--
'Tis held upside down, it is true;
Their sweet roguish voices are ringing
As if every number they knew.
But what they are singing they know not;
Each sings in a different tone.
Sing on, little children; your voices
Will reach to the Heavenly Throne;
For yonder your angels are standing,
Who sing to the Father of all;
He loves best the sound of His praises
From children, though ever so small.
Sing on! How the birds in the garden
Are vying with you in your song,
As, hopping among the young branches,
They twitter on all the day long!
Sing on! For in faith ye are singing,
And that is enough in God's sight:
A heart like the dove's, pure and guileless,
Wings early to heaven its flight.
Sing ever! We elders sing also;
We read, and the words understand;
Yet oft, too, alas! we are holding
Our books upside down in the hand.
Sing ever! We sing, as is fitting,
From notes written carefully down;
But ah! from the strife of the brethren
How often has harmony flown!
Sing on! From our lofty cathedrals
What melodies glorious we hear!
What are they?--a sweet childish lisping,
A breath in the Mighty One's ear.