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TO MY CHILD IN ILLNESS.
Y child! beside thy little bedI sit with aching heart,
And feel with mingled grief and dread,
Perchance we soon must part:
I gaze upon thy troubled sleep,
Thy flushed and fevered brow;
And though that sorrow cannot weep,
I feel what none can know.
For oh! if God should please to take
Thy sinless spirit now,
Methinks this bursting heart would break,
E'en while it strove to bow.
And yet my inmost wish is still
To feel His ways are best,—
To bend me to His holy will,
And bid each murmur rest.
Thy sinless spirit now,
Methinks this bursting heart would break,
E'en while it strove to bow.
And yet my inmost wish is still
To feel His ways are best,—
To bend me to His holy will,
And bid each murmur rest.
But though in health I loved thee more
Than human tongue can tell,
I never knew, till this sad hour,
I loved thee half so well.
Than human tongue can tell,
I never knew, till this sad hour,
I loved thee half so well.
