By W. K. Johnston
Midnight bells of sorrow wake the convict From his fitful dreams of freedom dear; He sighs for sweetheart, home and mother, Then sheds for all the penitential tear.
Then comes the hour of breaking day When all the world awakes to noisy strife, And he with quivering lips and breaking heart. Prays God to take his sinful, weary life.
Then God, to fill his heart with hope again, Now floods his cell with shimmering rays of gold-The same that makes the shepherd sing with joy, As he calls his sheep from out their sheltering fold.