Alexander McLachlan (1818–1896)

’TIS Sabbath morn, and a holy balm

Drops down on the heart like dew,

And the sunbeams gleam like a blessèd dream,

Afar on the mountains blue.

Old Hannah ’s by her cottage door

In her faded widow’s cap;

She is sitting alone on the old grey stone,

With the Bible in her lap.

An oak is hanging above her head,

And the burn is wimpling by;

The primroses peep from their sylvan keep,

And the lark is in the sky.

Beneath that shade her children played,

But they’re all away with Death,

And she sits alone on the old grey stone

To hear what the Spirit saith.

Her years are past three score and ten,

And her eyes are waxing dim,

But the page is bright with a living light,

And her heart leaps up to Him

Who pours the mystic Harmony

Which the soul alone can hear!

She is not alone on the old grey stone,

Though no earthly friend is near.

There ’s no one left to love her now;

But the Eye that never sleeps

Looks on her in love from the heavens above,

And with quiet joy she weeps.

For she feels the balm of bliss is poured

In her lone heart’s sorest spot:

The widow lone on the old grey stone

Has a peace the world knows not.