  I know, Lord, Thou hast sent Him— Thou art so good to me!— But Thou hast only lent Him, His heart's for Thee! I dared—Thy poor hand-maiden— Not ask a prophet-child: Only a boy-babe laden For earth—and mild. But this one Thou hast given Seems not for earth—or me! His lips flame truth from heaven, And vanity Seem all my thoughts and prayers When He but speaks Thy Law; Out of my heart the tares Are torn by awe! I cannot look upon Him So strangely burn His eyes— Hath not some grieving drawn Him From Paradise? For Thee, for Thee I'd live, Lord! Yet oft I almost fall Before Him—Oh, forgive, Lord, My sinful thrall! But e'en when He was nursing, A baby at my breast, It seemed He was dispersing The world's unrest. Thou bad'st me call Him "Jesus" And from our heavy sin I know He shall release us, From Sheol win. But, Lord, forgive! the yearning That He may sometimes be Like other children, learning Beside my knee, Or playing, prattling, seeking For help,—comes to my heart.... Ah sinful, Lord, I'm speaking— How good Thou art! |
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