Our children may not abide; the earth sounds hollow to the foot—it is so full of graves. Ah! how few gardens are there where death has not left his footprints, when he came to steal away some of our sweetest flowers. Few are the trees standing on this earth, from which he has not lopped off some goodly boughs. In this world, have I not seen one and another stand bleak and branchless; and oh how blessed for the father who has laid the last survivor in the dust, and returns from that saddest funeral to find God waiting for him in his desolate home.—GUTHRIE.
Comfort In Desolate Homes
