Margery Miller, a child of God, Meekly and bravely life’s path had trod, Nor deemed affliction a “chastening rod.” Her brother, Jesus, who went before, A crown of thorns in his meekness wore, And what, poor soul! could _she_ hope for more? Poor old Margery Miller! Sitting alone, Unsought, unknown, Strange that her heart had not turned to stone! Ay, there she sat, on that Christmas eve, Seeking some dream of the past to weave, Patiently striving not to grieve. O, for those long, long eighty years, How had she struggled with doubts and fears, Shedding in secret unnumbered tears! Poor old Margery Miller! Sitting alone, Unsought, unknown, How _could_ she stifle her sad heart’s moan? Soft on her ear fell the Christmas chimes, Bringing the thought of the dear old times, Like birds that sing of far distant climes. _Then_ swelled the flood of her pent-up grief-- Swayed like a reed in the tempest brief, Her bowed form shook like an aspen leaf. Poor old Margery Miller! Sitting alone, Unsought, unknown, How heavy the burden of life had grown! “O God!” she cried, “I am lonely here, Bereft of all that my heart holds dear; Yet Thou dost never refuse to hear. “O, if the dead were allowed to speak! Could I only look on their faces meek, How it would strengthen my heart so weak!” Poor old Margery Miller! Sitting alone, Unsought, unknown, What was that light which around her shone? Dim on the hearth burned the embers red, Yet soft and clear, on her silvered head, A light like the sunset glow was shed. Bright blossoms fell on the cottage floor, “Mother” was whispered, as oft before, And long-lost faces gleamed forth once more. Poor old Margery Miller! No longer alone, Unsought, unknown, How light the burden of life had grown! She lifted her withered hands on high, And uttered the eager, earnest cry, “God of all mercy! now let me die. “Beautiful Angels, fair and bright, Holding the _hem_ of your garments white, Let me go forth to the world of light.” Poor old Margery Miller! So earnest grown! Was she left alone? His humble child did the Lord disown? O, sweet was the sound of the Christmas bell, As its musical changes rose and fell, With a low refrain or a solemn swell. But sweeter by far was the blesséd strain, That soothed old Margery Miller’s pain, And gave her comfort and peace again. Poor old Margery Miller! In silence alone, Her faith had grown; And now the blossom had brightly blown.