in the morn of the holy sabbath

i like in the church to see

the dear little children clustered,

worshiping there with me.

i am sure that the gentle pastor,

whose words are like summer dew,

is cheered as he gazes over

the dear little heads in the pew.

faces earnest and thoughtful,

innocent, grave, and sweet,

they look in the congregation

like lilies among the wheat.

and i think that the tender master,

whose mercies are ever new,

has a special benediction

for dear little heads in the pew.