The Passing Throng

The Passing Throng

From newsboy to the millionaire

    The passing throng goes by each day;

The old man with his weight of care,

    The maiden in her colors gay,

The mother with her babe in arms,

    The dreamer and the man of might,

Grief's cruel scars and laughter's charms

    Pass by the window, day and night.


Now slowly rides a corpse to find

    The grave and its unbroken sleep,

And in the carriages behind

    A score of sorrowing loved ones weep;

But scarcely has the hearse passed by

    Upon its journey to the tomb,

When, wreathed with smiles of love, we spy

    The faces of a bride and groom.


We cannot understand it all,

    We cannot know why this is so;

From dawn until night's curtains fall,

    We see the people come and go.

Hope lights the eyes of youth to-day,

    To-morrow care has left them dim;

Once this man proudly walked his way,

    But now defeat has broken him.


Could we but watch, as God must do,

    We'd see the struggling youth arise,

We'd see him brave his dangers through,

    And reach his goal and claim the prize.

And we might judge with gentler sight

    The broken lives, which come and go,

And better choose 'twixt wrong and right—

    If we could know what God must know.