The weeping daughter promised Always to do her best; And, closing her eyes over weary life, The mother entered her rest. And Mary kept her promise As faithfully as she might. She cooked, and washed, and mended, And kept things tidy and bright. And when the father came home drunk, The children were sent to bed, And Mary waited alone, and took The beatings in their stead. And the little chubby fingers lost Their childish softness and grace, And toughened and chapped and calloused, And the rosy, childish face. Grew thin and haggard and anxious, Careworn, tired, and old, As on those slender shoulders The burdens of life were rolled. So, when the heated season Burned pitiless overhead, And up from the filth of the noisome street The fatal fever spread, And work and want and drunken blows Had weakened the tender frame, Into the squalid room once more The restful shadow came. And Mary sent for the playmate Who lived just over the way, And said, 'The charity Doctor, Has been here, Katie, to-day. 'He says I'll never be better-- The fever has been so bad; And if it wasn't for one thing, I'm sure I'd just be glad. 'It isn't about the children; I've kept my promise good, And mother will know I stayed with them As long as ever I could. 'But you know how it has been, Katie; I've had so much to do, I couldn't mind the children And go to the preaching, too. 'And I've been so tired-like at night, I couldn't think to pray, And now, when I see the Lord Jesus, What ever am I to say?' And Katie, the little comforter, Her help to the problem brought; And into her heart, made wise by love, The Spirit sent this thought: 'I wouldn't say a word, dear, For sure He understands; I wouldn't say ever a word at all; But, Mary, <i>just show Him your hands!'"</i> Jesus knows every scar of sacrifice you bear, and loves it. For it tells Him your love. He knows the meaning of scars, because of His own. The marks of sacrifice cement our fellowship with Him. The nearer we come to fellowship with Him in the daily touch and spirit the more freely can He reach out His own great winsomeness through us, out to His dear world. <u>"Won't You Save Me?"</u> To outsiders, who don't know about the thing, that word "sacrifice" has an ugly sound. It drives them away. But to the insiders, who have come in by the Jesus-door, there is a joyousness of the bubbling-out, singing sort, that makes the word "sacrifice," and the thing itself, clean forgot even while remembered. It is remembered as a distinct real thing, but it is pushed away from the centre of your consciousness by this song that insists on singing its music into the ears of your heart.