Never a baby soul fluttered away

But I must tenderly treasure the clay,

Holding it close to my motherly breast,

Hiding it under my mantle to rest;

To rest till the Father who builded the skies

Shall waken the dust, and bid it arise.

Every sweet babe, in my bosom I hold,

Is a bright angel to never grow old.

Wee, waxen hands so quietly folded;

Little, still feet—divinely they’re molded!

Eyes that once sparkled and yet to awake

When Resurrection’s bright morning shall break.