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My Brown Eyed Boy
All the children gazed on the little babe,
That the Lord Jesus had sent today,
They wondered and wondered how he got there,
If he came down the river or came down the stairs.
At six years old we will look at the time,
Going to school just before nine,
So lonesome at home, I could hardly stay,
For my baby had gone to school that day.
At five o’clock I begin to look,
Coming down the road swinging his little book,
I went out to meet him, and took him by the hand,
I was proud of my little man.
At twelve years old, at church one night,
He gave his heart to the Lord a wonderful sight,
To hear him testify and almost preach,
The height of joy I surely had reached.
At years passed on he became grown,
Out in sin the dear Lord he disowned,
Away from the Lord he has gone away,
Oh how I wish he would come back someday,
For there is nothing so sweet as peace in your soul,
Sins all forgiven and you know you are whole,
Though the blood of the Lamb as he hung on the cross,
To save our souls from a dreadful loss.
Thirty-three years and it seems a little while,
Since I rocked my baby with a wonderful smile,
With his big brown eyes I can see him grin,
But now I am crying and my eyes are growing dim.
Oh I long so much with my children to be,
The last of my years to be happy and free,
Lord grant this to me, some other day,
Two thousand miles is a long, long way.
Tonight I wish I could set your chair,
Hold your little hands and smooth your hair,
And talk of the days that are happy and free,
When all the children would gather round me.
But now I'm growing old,
And my days are mostly spent,
I cannot come and see you,
Only a letter will be sent.
Wishing you the happiest birthday of all,
If I don't see you in the spring,
I hope to see you in the fall,
Go back to church and make things right,
Take a stand for God and sin to fight,
And then when you come to the end of the way,
It will be a happy and wonderful day.
(Poem written by Emma Thurman to her son
Clarence on the occasion of his thirty-third
birthday. This poem is prophetic in that, a
few years ago, Clarence Edward Smith
returned to his boyhood faith. His mom
passed away one month after writing this poem.)
My Ship
The ship that I was looking for,
Came sailing home today,
She delayed her coming for many a night,
And I continued to pray.
That God would shield her from the snares,
And bring her safely home,
In answer to my many prayers.
Oh Lord, to Thee I own.
This ship brought home my sailor boy,
He had been gone, one year.
Lord hasten the day when wars shall cease,
And hearts filled with joy instead of fear.
And for the ships that didn’t return,
And all those boys that mothers loved,
I pray they found sweet peace with Him,
Who rules and reigns above.
This war will cease I know some day,
And the boys come sailing home,
With freedom won for all the world,
With guns laid down, no more to roam.
If we obey, all will be well,
And may the world then learn to know,
That God means what he says,
For we shall reap just what we sow.
(Written by Mrs. Emma Thurman Smith, August 20, 1944)
Poor Old Ike
Poor old Ike, a good fellow is he,
Came out over the Democrats for all to see.
With all the mud slinging Stevenson could do,
He never changed me nor could he change you.
Lots of Democrats hung on to dear old Ike,
They knew a real man from a parasite.
For poor old Ike will do his best,
With honesty and unrighteousness.
we'll all have a rest.
For dishonesty in government is a terrible thing,
Worse still is covering up with the mud they sling.
To get the eyes off poor old Ike,
When his life shines forth like a golden spike.
Poor Ike in the White House what changes there will be,
When he sweeps out the corruption that you and I will see.
Our boys in Korea how glad they will be,
To see poor old Ike, coming over the sea.
With a helping hand, this war to stop,
And send the boys back to their mom and pop.
Poor old Ike has a big job to do,
We are standing by his side to see the job through.
Then our nation can proudly say,
"Poor Old Ike has won the day".
God will bless a nation that walks upright,
For all sin is a reproach in His Sight.
Have the right man the head of our nation,
Or we will go down in degradation.
Republicans and Democrats let's all stay together,
We'll surely pull through in all kinds of weather.
For righteousness and liberty let's all take a stand,
Like the Pilgrims did when then came to this land.
(Written by Mrs. Emma Thurman Smith, the day
after the presidential elections of 1952 between
Dwight David Eisenhower and Adlai Stevenson.
Published in a local newspaper.)
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