And think him your own Jesus. Let him sleep
In your deep bosom, Mary, then you'll see
His lashes, how they curl, so childishly;
You'll weep again, and rock him on your heart
As I did once, that night we had to part.
He'll come to you all bloody and bemired,
But let him sleep, my dear, for he'll be tired,
And very shy. If he'd come home to me
I wouldn't ask the neighbors in to tea....
He always hated crowds.... I'd let him be....
And then perhaps you'll take him by the hand,
And comfort him from fear when he must stand
Before God's dreadful throne; then, will you call
That boy whose bullet made my darling fall,
And take him in your other hand and say—
"O God, whose Son the hands of men did slay,
These are Thy children who do take away the sins of the world...."
