An appeal on the Moorfield Explosion

By Matilda Harrison of Accrington 1890.

Once again we must turn to our annals of sorrow,

But where shall we seek fitting language to borrow,

To add yet another sad link to the chain?

Sure none but an angel could bend to the strain.

And yet even he, had he gazed on the sight,

And were asked to record it in mansions of light,

Had he heard the loud wailing so painfully deep,

At the sad recollection that angel would weep.

Then how shall a mortal presume to unfold

The tale that could never by angels be told?

How breathe the sad notes of the mournful refrain?

We must pass o'er the scene of such terrible pain.

With a fervent heart-prayer that the God of all love,

May send consolation and strength from above,

With blessings that none but a God can impart,

To soothe and to comfort the poor stricken heart.

May the widow trust always His power to defend,

Hay she prove Him her truest, her tenderest friend;

May the fatherless little ones yield to His care,

He'll guide and protect them though father's not there.

We pray that our wounded ones, father, may share,

Thy ministering angel's attendance and care,

That soon from their pain they may hope to be free,

And render their rescued lives back unto Thee.

We pray Thee to guard and most graciously save

our gallant explorers, so daring and brave,

Such hearts, we are sure, must have honoured the name

Of England's proud heroes we boast of in fame.

We thank Thee, kind Father of earth and of heaven,

For aid to the suffering, so readily given;

May the blessing of those who were ready to fall,

Like a halo of glory encircle them all.

Ye wealthy, on whom fair goddess has smiled,

Who know not the struggles of poverty's child,

In pity respond to humanity's call,

That we soon may rejoice in provision for all.

If ye give to the poor, ye lend but to the Lord,

'Tis the safest investment, He well can afford

To give good per cent. in a prosperous store,

With a kingdom of glory and life evermore.

Then give in the Name of the One we adore,

Who commended the widow, though small was her store;

Remember the cup of cold water was blest,

Then throw in your gift, ye shall fail not the rest.

Such deeds of benevolence, kindness, and love,

Though sown on this earth, shall be garnered above;

Shall shine to your honour and glory at last,

When these painful bereavements for ever are past.