Oh, with what tender grace the Master smiled,
As in his arms he took a little child
And set him in the midst! And then he turned
Upon his wondering friends a look that burned
With love the flimsy tatters of their pride.
Unstriving, modest, happy, at his side
The child's unconscious, unassuming worth
Wrought in those hearts the work of the new birth,
And each, a little child, e'en as of yore,
Stood, trustful, at his mother's knee once more.
Their angels do behold your Father's face,
Said Jesus. Greetings in the market place,
Pride of position, never cloud or cloy
His kingdom's sweetness, never mar its joy.
We shall be satisfied with God's dear grace,
When, as a little child, we see His face.
Set in our world-wise midst, now e'en as then,
The sweet reminder speaks to tired men,
And thoughts let go their childish, useless care
To be child-angels, ever bright and fair.
