How oft ’mid the vi­sions of life’s great com­mo­tion
And mys­ter­ies so strange that I oft­en ex­plore,
I drift in my heart to the home of my child­hood
And soft­ly I op­en the latch of the door.
I stand for a mo­ment with heart love con­sum­ing,
For oh, there’s a scene that I ne’er can for­get;
My mo­ther, dear mo­ther, so pray­er­ful com­mun­ing—
The text of her Bible she’s pon­der­ing yet.

Refrain

The Gos­pel, dear Gos­pel, the God given Gos­pel,
It comes for the mill­ions—accept it to­day.

While lin­ger­ing fond­ly her pray­er is as­cend­ing,
And ’mid her pe­ti­tion she breathes forth my name;
She prays that the Spir­it, my foo­tsteps at­tend­ing,
May give me a life that is free from all blame.
Ah, that was my watch­word, and well did I heed it,
For long have I trod in the path­way di­vine;
My faith, tho’ so fee­ble, her spir­it could feed it,
And teach me the Gos­pel with line up­on line.

Refrain

How ma­ny a one in his hour of temp­ta­tion,
Remembr’ring the pray­er at his dear mo­ther’s knee,
Would yield to its plead­ings with­out re­serv­ation,
If only its beau­ty his poor heart could see.
The Spir­it is will­ing, He’s rea­dy to meet you,
And bid all your sor­row and ang­uish de­part;
Come, op­en thy door, He is rea­dy to greet you,
And sweet­ly to dwell like a friend in your heart.

Refrain