Robert Chester Roberts

The Courant American
Cartersville, Georgia
January 6, 1888, Page 1
Transcribed by 2006

In Memoriam.

In memory of Robert Chester Roberts, who died in Cartersville, Friday, Dec. 9th, 1887, aged 2 years and 3 days.

One less on earth; one more in Heaven.  The baby is dead.  The little chair is forever empty.  One Friday afternoon the gates of Heaven swung open to admit another angel, a little golden haired angel with dark blue eyes.  The little life was just budding when the Reaper came.

“My Lord has need of these flow’rets gay,
The Reaper said, and smiled;
Dear tokens of the earth are they,
Where He was once a child.”

God only lent the jewel.  He knew the trials, the temptations, that awaited him, and took him away while he was yet a pure little child.  Before the mother scarcely realized what a precious care is the moulding of an immortal soul, he was gone.  Only a mother knows the ambitious dreams for his future, plans of how great, how powerful he might be, dreamed by this mother so sorrowful today.  Of these bright dreams there only remains to her a little grave under a leaden winter sky and an assurance that in the Great Beyond there waits for her an angel, and that when all life’s cares are over baby hands will be stretched out to her over the Dark River and a beautiful angel face will be the first to welcome her into that city where God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes and there shall be no more death.

O mother!  O father!  Turn your sorrowing eyes backward to where hundreds of years ago the Christ child was born.  Think of his beautiful life; think of what he said about the little children of those Judean mothers; think of the last hours when he hung upon the cross and his mother strained her eyes through the darkness to catch a sight of her beloved one’s face; then think of Him in this season of His birth, surrounded by the triumphant hosts of Heaven; think of your little child in this Saviour’s arms forever, happy and blest, and be contented.

“There is no death.  What seems so is transition;
This life of mortal breath is but the suburbs of the Land Elysian,
Whose portals we call Death.
He is not dead, the child of your affection,
But gone into that school where he no longer
Needs your poor protection,
And Christ Himself doth rule.”

“In that great cloister’s dimness and seclusion,
By guardian angels led,
Safe from temptation, safe from sin’s pollution,
He lives whom we call dead.”

--- Lollie F.


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