The Orphan

OH, wearily, most wearily through life,The orphan girl in bitter grief must go,Uncheered amid the dark and restful strifeA cold world wages with the child of woe;No parent's voice to soothe with sweet controlThe burning tear-drops bursting from her soul.

She's desolate on earth, and she must bearThe conflict of mortality alone;Nor in her keenest anguish must she dareTo heave a sigh, or breathe one sorrowing moan;For men may mock the sighs and groans that startFrom the recesses of a breaking heart!

And when disease steals fiercely through her frame,And she is lying helpless, pale, and weak—When fever's wild and desolating flameIs burning on her brow and wasted cheek,None come to stand beside her couch and laveHer lip and forehead with the cooling wave.

Yet, oh, there's One to whom she still may turn,One who hath power to soothe, to heal, to bless—The great All-Merciful, who will not spurnThe weeping orphan in her wretchedness,Yes, she may lift her earnest prayers on highTo Him who listens to the raven's cry.

He hears her pleading tones of agony—He sees the tears her lifted eyes that fill,And the deep wounds that bled upon the treeAre for the lovely orphan bleeding still!He will be with her in sore distress,A friend—a father to the fatherless

Then lift thy head, poor orphan, in thy grief,Turn from the world, and fix thy thoughts above—Thou hast a Father who can give relief,And love thee with a deep, immortal love!He will uphold thee on life's stormy sea,And make thee blessed in eternity.