Submitted By Brent Cottrill
I think of times as the night draws nigh,
Of an old house on the hill,
Of a yard all wide and blossom-starred,
Where the children played at will.
And when the deep night at last came down,
Hushing the merry din,
Mother would look all around and ask,
“Are all the children in?”
‘Tis many and many a year since then,
And the old house on the hill
No longer echoes childish feet,
And the yard is still, so still.
But I see it all as the shadows creep,
And tho’ many the years have been
Since then, I can hear my mother ask,
“Are all the children in?”
I wonder if, when those shadows fall
On the last short earthly day,
When we say good-bye to the world outside,
All tired of our childish play,
When we meet the Lover of boys and girls,
Who died to save them from sin,
Will we hear Him ask as Mother did,
“Are all the children in?”
