HOW BENNY DIED. HE was a strange-looking little fellow. Some years ago he came first into the baby school; he lived upon the school food. Every day, no matter what the weather was, Benny was there; and from the baby school he passed into the infant school. All his child-life was spent in the Coombe school. One day lately he became ill, the next day worse. Admission was sought for him in an hospital. Before he went, Mr. H. said to him, "If you die, Benny, shall I ever again see you?" The child lifted up his quaint little face. "Oh, yes," he said, "where I am, there shall also my servant be." In the hospital he grew rapidly worse. His aunt went to see him; he was slightly delirious; but his little hands were clasped together, and he was murmuring his texts. "If we walk in the light, as He is in the light, we have fellowship one with another, and the blood of Jesus Christ His Son cleanseth from all sin." "You're too young to sin, Benny," she said. He looked up. "All have sinned, and come short of the glory of God," he said. "Oh God, for Christ's sake, give me thy holy Spirit." Thus died little Benny, a soul rescued for Jesus in the Coombe Ragged-school. No room in the inn for the Saviour was found, Who from childhood was treated with scorn; No place but the manger, where cattle were brought, When the infant of Mary was born. No home but the Mountain of Olives was His, Though the bird of the air had its nest; No love but the Father's, whose bosom He left, Could give Him refreshment and rest. No comforters came, when for comfort He looked, No pity, when pity He sought; Tho' for sin He was wounded and smitten of God, The sinner would set Him at nought. Yet heaven was opened to give Him the praise Denied Him by man on the earth; And heavenly choirs broke forth in their songs Of wonder and joy at His birth. And angels, who ministered oft to His need, Were sent to His help from the throne, When, weary and weak, in the bitterest hour, His people had left Him alone. But neither the manger, the cross, nor the shame, Are now by this Blessed One known; Gethsemane's sorrows for ever are past, And the fruit of them all is His own. And now that He dwells in the mansions of bliss, And has room for His precious ones there, The manger's remembered to heighten the joy Which each will eternally share. LONDON: WILLIAM MACINTOSH, |