Page:Roden Noel - A Little Child's Monument - 1881.pdf/73

It was Jesus, and the gentle saints departed,
Who came his wound to cure;
On their gentle bosom how secure!

If I only knew how I shall behold him,
When and where, and in what happy guise!
Will he be a child when I enfold him?
Or will the form change as he grows more wise?
He will ever be a child in his sweet spirit!
And I deem the very form will never die;
But ah! the soul slides where she holds no image!
Reels, nor grasps reality!
If I were only sure of his well-being,
Sure as I am sure of anguish here,
Could I wish him in our foul, infected prison,
Away from his pure air?

Ah! Thy merciless, stem mercy hath chastised us,
Goading us along the narrow road;
Thy bird, who warmed and dazzled us a moment,
Hath returned to Thine abode.
Lord, when we are purged within the furnace,
May we have our little child again?
All Thine anguish by the olives in the Garden,
All Thy life and death are vain,
If Thou yield us not our own again!