Mark x. 13, 16.
Soul,
journeying through the desert wild,
Couldst
thou become a little child,
Thou
wouldst behold with joyful eyes
God
walking in His Paradise.
A
little child, submissive, still,
That
knoweth not it hath a will--
What
mother gives, it simply takes,
And
sweetly sleeps, and laughing wakes.
If
taken up, or laid to rest,
All
comes to it as it were best;
If
all forget it for a while,
It
has no language but a smile.
To
it alike are praise or blame,
Alike
a king's or peasant's name--
A
thing so weak, so poor, so small,
Yet
fearing nought that may befall.
How
true and innocent its eyes!
And
simply trusting, it is wise.
It
reasons not, nor looks before,
The
present moment all its store.
It
cannot walk, nor stand alone,
And
nothing doth it call its own--
It
knows no dangers, no alarms,
Safe
sheltered in its mother's arms.
Of
learned lore, and tangled thought,
And
questions deep, it knoweth nought,
And
void of wonder or surprise,
It
watches all with sunny eyes.
It
has its little joy and bliss,
Its
mother's arms, its mother's kiss--
Her
face is ever its delight,
Its
comfort sweet by day and night.
Blest
innocence of childish days!
So
unto me are Wisdom's ways;
A
love divinely deep and high--
Oh
would that such a child were I!
The
life of God in me begun,
Filled
with the Spirit of His Son,
In
childhood of the life divine,
Untroubled
trust and gladness mine.
Whilst
yet through desert wilds I roam,
A
child in the eternal Home;
Beholding
now, with joyful eyes,
God
walking in His Paradise.
G. T. B.
