THE BLIND MAN.
WHETHER the days are warm and bright,
Or airs are keen and cold,
We see him on the pavement sit,
A beggar blind and old.
His hat is in his outstretched hand—
Leaving his white locks bare—
That now and then a passer-by
May drop a penny there.
The crowds go on with hurrying feet,
And with indifferent eyes,
Though little children pause to gaze
In pity and surprise.
I ponder bow, when Jesus walked
Upon the earth, and heard
The blind man at the wayside cry,
His loving heart was stirred;
And how, though care for all the world
Weighed on him like a chain,
His patient ear could wait to hear
That humble voice of pain'.
And then, how his compassionate touch
Fell on the withered sight,
'Till long-sealed, helpless lids once more
Were open to the light.
Aye, day by day, on mart and street,
And all along our ways,
Come up the self-same sufferings
That met our Master's gaze.
The same as then is need and room
To heal and cheer and bless,
If we but carry in our breasts
His heart of tenderness.
—S. S. Times.