The Happy Land by A.S. At a palace of pleasure, A few years ago, Where grand folk resorted, And passed to and fro, A skeptic and others Were dining at ease, Whilst waiters around them Sought humbly to please; When, suddenly rising In richness and grace Came a pure, childish voice, that filled all the place. The diners were startled, From whence came the sound? At the door stood a child, Bare feet on the ground. Her clothes were all tattered, Her figure forlorn, A sight in our city To make angels mourn. But oh! on her face such A flush sweet and grand, As she sang childhood’s song, “A bright happy land.” “There is a happy land, Far, far away, Where saints in glory stand, Bright, bright as day. Oh, how they sweetly sing, Worthy is the Saviour King!” Loud let His praises ring; Praise, praise for aye.” The waiter was angry; He rushed to the door. “Be off, you young urchin, Don’t come any more!” He turned back disgusted, No thought of that song, No thought of the singer As he walked along. “How dare you act harshly?” The skeptic cried out, “What harm was she doing?” He said with a shout, “Recall her at once, sir, And bring her to me; That singing was lovely, The child I would see.” They brought the child to him . She sang the sweet strains, “There is a happy land,” To him once again. The guests all around them Were thrilled with delight; The singing was lovely, The singer a sight! To her said the skeptic, “Your voice is divine, But the theme of your song Is no faith of mine. There is no life beyond death, No land bright and fair.” “Why, sir, said the singer, “My mother is there.” “Your mother? Oh well, child, ’Tis merely a dream; None other is with her, Or heaven has seen.” “Why, sir, you’re mistaken; In that happy land, My Jesus is with them! It’s wondrous, it’s grand.” “And father and I, sir, Will soon join the throng, To sing with the ransomed, to join in their song. No sorrow, nor crying, Nor starving, nor pain, But ever with Jesus; Oh, blest be His Name!” The skeptic still smiling, Said, “Where is you home?” “With father, at Hoxton; We live all alone; But father is ailing, He can’t leave his bed, And I earn by singing, The living,” she said. “Poor child! Take me with you; Your father I’ll see, Now don’t be afraid, But come home with me.” They came to the garret Where, dying, was laid The father, kept cheerful By that little maid. The skeptic (a good man), Was pricked to the heart, At the sight of their love The tear-drops would start. He paid for the father To have every care, And a home for the child, That singer so fair. The father sank lower, Alas! he soon died; Consumption had claimed him, Would not be denied. The skeptic, still loving That sweet little maid, Prepared for her future, While she for him prayed. But alas! the exposure Or her little form While singing for father, All tattered and torn, Had sown the fell seedlings In her feeble frame, And soon that young singer Would be but a name. The skeptic was troubled, he sent her to stay At a good nursing-home; But she faded away. And there many moments He spent by her side; Alas! the sweet singer Sank lower, and died. But, as she lay dying, She said, “Shall I sing My own little song, that To you did me bring?” “Oh, yes,” cried the sceptic, As he took her hand— Then she sang once again Of that happy land. “There is a happy land, Far, far away, Where saints in glory stand, Bright, bright as day. Oh, how they sweetly sing, Worthy is the Saviour King!” Loud let His praises ring; Praise, praise for aye.” The voice was so feeble, But Oh! it was grand; So sure to that maiden; Her place in that land. His eyes filled with tears, No words could he speak, No feeling of comfort From it could he seek. She raised her frail form, She gazed in his face, And then, with a smile of Ineffable grace, Said, “Mother has gone there, And Jesus’ there, too, And I’m going to them, But what will you do? Won’t you come to Jesus? To that happy land? Won’t you love and serve Him With that happy band? Then feebly she sang, Her heart in the song, Increasing in fervor. As she went along: “Come to that happy land, Come, come away; Why will you doubting stand? Why still delay? Oh! we shall happy be, When from sin and sorrow free Lord, we shall live with Thee, Blest, blest for aye.” The singer had finished (Her life scarce begun); She lay down, ceased breathing, Her work, it was done. But, Oh! the sweet gesture Of love, e’er life fled! The strong man was humbled, The singer was dead. He pleaded for mercy, To One, who in love, To save wretched sinners, Came down from above, And was he rejected? Oh! Infinite grace! The sinner was pardoned, In Him found a place. She was laid in the tomb. Her body at rest; Her soul with her loved ones, And Him she loved best. The strong man took counsel In prayer at the throne, To serve best her Savior, He claimed as his own. He lives to declare Him, Whom long he disowned; The blessed Lord Jesus His heart had enthroned, He tells oft how Jesus Came down from the sky, In tenderest pity, To suffer and die. He tells how poor sinners Before Him can stand, In perfect acceptance, In that happy land; That, redeemed by His blood, On that happy shore, Their sins and iniquities Remembered no more. And often the story He tells of the child, Who sang once so sweetly The land undefiled; How then by the cords of His love had led And freed Him from Satan, Gave life from the dead. ’Tis true, friends! Believe it! Our Jesus has died; For sin on the Cross He Was once crucified. His hands and His feet, they Were nailed to the tree, And all this He suffered For you and for me. Yes, sinners believing He’ll pardon and heal; All, all who their sins and Their wretchedness feel; Not one is excepted; All sinners may come; His work is completed; God’s pleased with His Son. In love I beseech you, No longer delay; Come now to the Savior, Come friends, while you may. Oh! hear that sweet singer, Her childish refrain, Her last dying effort Plead once again: “Come to that happy land, Come, come away; Why will you doubting stand? Why still delay? Oh! we shall happy be, When from sin and sorrow free Lord, we shall live with Thee, Blest, blest for aye.” This story is faithful, This story is true; The skeptic’s blest Savior Make your Savior too. You own you’re a sinner, Then own Him as Lord; Bow down in His presence; His name be adored! And then, oh! with Jesus In that happy land, With all the redeemed ones, Rejoicing you’ll stand; Who loved us, who saved us, From death, sin and shame, To Him be the glory! Praised, praised be His Name! Submitted by Mary Ueland, Mansfield, MO YWSH Main Page