midnight
In agony a mother knelt Beside her wasted pulseless child ; `` Give , oh , give him back to me , '' She cried , in accents stern and wild . That prayer was heard , the answer came : The feeble pulse revived again ; And quick the crimson tide of life Flowed warmly back through every vein . Yet , though the mother saw the change , No praise unto her God was given ; No grateful incense from that heart Ascended up to pitying heaven . 'T was midnight 's deep and silent hour , When nature folds her hands to sleep , And Angels come to bathe the flowers , With dewy tears they only weep . She heeded not the pulse of time That throbb 'd the moments of the night , Nor yet the early morning 's dawn , That ting 'd the east with rosy light . But with a mother 's earnest eye , Watch 'd o'er her infant 's peaceful rest : Until his gentle slumber passed , Then clasp 'd him fondly to her breast . Childhood 's brief years in sin were spent ; The stubborn knee ne'er bent in prayer ; Those lips ne'er spake a Saviour 's name , `` Our Father '' never lingered there .