There's a dear and precious Book,
Tho' it's worn and faded now,
Which recalls the happy days of long ago;
When I stood at mother's knee,
With her hand upon my brow,
And I heard her voice in gentle tones and low.
Blessed book, precious book,
On thy dear old tear-stained leaves I love to look;
Thou art sweet day by day,
As I walk the narrow way
That leads at last to that bright home above.
As she read those stories o'er,
Of those mighty men of old,
Of Joseph and Daniel and thier trials,
Of little David bold,
Who became a king at last;
Of Satan with his many wicked wiles.
Then she read of Jesus' love,
As he blest the children dear,
How he suffered, bled and died upon the tree;
Of his heavy load of care,
Then she dried my flowing tears
With her kisses as she said it was for me.
Well, those days are past and gone,
But their mem'ry lingers still,
And the dear old Book each day has been my guide;
And I seek to do his will,
As my mother taught me then,
And ever in my heart his words abide.
—by Milan B. Williams (1860–1941)