Oh Mother Love! Thou broodest still.
In tenderness divine,
On each dear child who does Thy will,
And finds his strength in Thine.
The feathers of Thy bosom warm,
His covering shall be,
When snare of fowler waits to harm,
And shut him out from Thee.
The angels of Thy watchful care
Are round about Thine own;
They triumph over human fear,
And trust in Thee alone.
When hatred flies its poisoned dart,
And clouds of terror lower,
They nestle closer to Thy heart,
Thy Truth, their shield and power.
