"The Peace of God, Which Passeth All Understanding."
I wonder why God hurts little ones in hospital yonder,
Lying so pale and quiet, each in his narrow bed,
Who should be filling the radiant air with ringing laughter!
Here fiendish fingers torture every restless head.
The merry hearts are delivered over to cruel Anguish!
Why doth God not scare the loathsome Pest away,
The harpy at her feast on His own little ones who play?
Ah! was it well to blast their one poor hour for pleasure,
Who will weep in dull November, nor ever have known a May?
Nay! the little ones are Thy children, Thou hast given them gladness!
May I not trust Thee with them, who art the pity in me?
For how my heart leaps up when I see their dear eyes dawning,
