We'll draw aside the curtain Of tent that's nearest by; Ah! what a mournful picture For stranger's curious eye.
See on that couch reclining, A young and lovely girl, With brow and neck half shaded. By many a clustering curl.
She was an only daughter, Nurtured with tenderest care; The idol of her parents, And fairest of the fair.
In bloom of youth and beauty, But yesterday she shone; And her fond parents thought her A mine of wealth unknown.
She seems like one that sleepeth, But there's no sign of breath; And coil'd 'neath her arm a serpent, Whose bite is _certain death_.
Yet not alone the mourners In this sad tent are found; Shriek after shriek is echoed For many miles around.
The mother, too, is bitten, With infant in her arms; And sire, in strength of manhood; And bride, with all her charms.
But see on pole suspended, A serpent now appears; And hark! what blissful tidings Salute the mourner's ears.
For every one that's bitten, A remedy is found; However bad the case is, However deep the wound.
If but _one spark_ remaineth Of life in any soul, Just look upon this serpent, That look will make thee whole.
But there's a wound that's deeper Than fiery serpent gave; And bite that's _doubly_ fatal, It kills beyond the grave.
And there's a great physician, That e'en _this wound_ may cure; And those to him applying, May life and health secure.
The broken heart he healeth, He cures the sin-sick soul; And all who will behold him, May _look_ and be made whole.
"I am the way!" he crieth; "And all who will may come, I'll pardon their transgression, And safe conduct them home.
"To cleanse from all pollution, My blood doth freely flow; And sins, though red as scarlet, Shall be as white as snow.
"Thy ransom to pay for thee, E'en my own life it cost; And he such love that slighteth, Forever shall be lost."
When days are dark and spirits low, And hope desponding stands, What comfort these few words bestow, "My times are in thy hands." That thought should every fear allay, And every cloud dispel; For we are in the hands of _One_ Who "doeth all things well."
He clothes the lily of the field, Paints the gay tulip's leaf, Hears the young ravens when they cry, And hastes to their relief. That little sparrow in thy path, He noticed when it fell; Numbereth the hairs upon thy head, And "doeth all things well."