A little child lay helpless
On a bed of fevered pain,
And as weeks passed by he would sometimes cry,
"Shall I ever play again?"
He would turn on his downy pillow,
Where the window brought to view
A patch of sky where the clouds flew by
Across a waste of blue;
Then he wondered if God behind them
Could see him waiting there;
Or whether an angel passing by
Ever caught his whispered prayer.
