The Little Corps Down Yonder

From Sawiki

There are many large corps in the Army
Of which we are justly proud;
Where band and songsters flourish
And we're always sure of a crowd.
But let us just now for a moment
Give thought to the smaller corps
Where there are no band and songsters
And the soldiers just number a score.
A Captain and a Lieutenant,
And, of course, the C.S.-M.,
A sister with the colours
And a brother with the drum:
And perhaps a few new converts,
Recent captives in the fight.
But how zealous! and how earnestly
They toil for God and right.
No headlines in 'The War Cry',
No place in S.A. fame,
No crowded halls on Sundays,
But they fight on just the same!
There's a little corps down yonder -
What triumphs in the days gone by!
Many stories I could tell you
That would make you laugh and cry.
I could tell you of the courage
Of the sister with the flag,
When the ruffians came upon her
And tore the colours like a rag.
And about the dear old drummer -
They called him 'Sinner Come'-
W'ho used his drum-sticks right and left,
When the ruffians broke his drum.
But listen to the story
Of a child so young and fair
Who sang her song for Jesus,
just near the Market Square.
The meeting had just started,
Six soldiers in the ring,
When the Captain gave the invite
For somebody to sing.
A little child came forward,
Poorly clad, so pale and thin,
And she whispered to the Captain,
'Can I sing my little hymn ?'
`God bless you, little Mary,'
Said the Captain, `Sure you may';
And then her voice rose sweetly,
`There's a green hill far away.'
The crowd soon gathered, spellbound -
E'en the hardest heart was stirred
As they listened to the singer,
Keen on catching every word.
Round the ring strong men were crying -
Those who had not wept for years -
And they tried to hide the weakness
As they wiped away their tears.
`He died that we might be forgiven,'
How sweetly Mary sang!
`That we might go at last to Heaven,'
Clearly the message rang.
But before the singer finished
A disturbing noise was heard,
As a drunkard shouted loudly
With a curse in every word.
`I know that's my child singing
And I've told her oft before;
Just let me get there to her,
And I'll see she sings no more.'
The crowd was filled with anger,
They all knew old drunken Jim;
And they also knew with sorrow
That no man could tackle him.
The Captain hurried forward
As the drunken man came near:
`Stand back! Stand back!' he shouted,
And he stood there without fear.
'Let me get her! Let me get her!'
Cried the drunkard, now quite wild,
'I'll teach her to defy me,
Don't you know, she is my child'
Quite fearlessly the child stood still
And recommenced to sing -
'There was no other good enough
To pay the price of sin.'
The drunkard raised his hand to strike,
But it never reached its goal,
For the arrow of conviction
Had pierced his darkened soul.
He fell right down upon his knees
And wept just like a child:
For that great drunken tyrant
Was sobered, meek and mild.
'Sing it again, my Mary!
Oh, sing it again for me.
Is it true that what you're singing?
Did He die to set me free?'
Hot tears ran down the dear child's face
As she sang those words again.
`He died that we might be forgiven';
Her voice grew dim - and then -
She fell and put her arms around
Her father at her feet,
And the scene that followed after that
Must have made the angels weep.
And the bells of Heaven rang aloud
A joyous glad refrain
For a prodigal returning
To the Father's Home again.
The crowd in reverent silence stood,
Every eye was filled with tears,
And the scene they saw that Friday night
Was spoken of for years.
God bless the faithful workers
In our little Army corps!
Where they toil in rain or sunshine
Sometimes with six-no more.
No headlines in 'The War Cry,'
No place in S.A. fame,
No crowded halls on Sundays,
But they fight on just the same.