How often, as a child, when fears would steal
My joy, or fretfulness my peace, I'd feel
My mother's gentle hand upon my head,
Stilling the fretfulness, the childish dread.
Temper's swift word, or disappointment's tear,
Reminding me of love that knew no fear.
So now, when mental storms arise
And seek to veil the light of Truth's clear eyes,
When arguments of sense and self would steal
My birthright of at-one-ment, do I feel
Thy gentle presence, Mother-Love divine,
Upon the dream's rebellious thinking fall,
Reminding me that Thou art All-in-all.
