From the Evening Journal, February 5, 1915.
How long he struggled against disease,
That baffled skill and care;
How long he lingered, racked with pain,
And suffering hard to bear.
Hour by hour we saw him fade,
And slowly sink away,
Yet in our hearts we prayed
That he might longer stay.
His willing hands are folded
His toils on earth are done;
His troubles are all ended,
His heavenly crown is won.
Oft we wander to the graveyard,
Flowers to place with loving care;
On the grave of our dear father,
Who so sweetly sleepeth there.
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