When they were little children
They often loved to go
With their father down to the shore
To watch, or play, or gather shells.
If neighbors, calling, asked,
"The children—where are they?"
Serenely I could say,
"They're with their father now,
Doing the things they love to do."
It was a time for laughter
And sharing much—
The search for a crumpled sock
Somewhere along the road,
Tying a broken shoelace
Or cradling a sleepy head;
And I could know he'd not forget
Their simple needs
For wearing warmer jackets
And staying close to him.
So now that duty takes them on
To farther fields
Of new maturity,
How sweet to know
I can be just as sure
Of the tender mindfulness of God,
Their Father-Mother always near
And governing,
Whose love provides all good for them
Before they call!
In all-pervading fatherhood
He can be trusted with the care
Of His beloved own.
"Where are the children?"
Do you ask.
Let me say in steadfast joy,
"With their ever-watchful Father
Constantly,
Who keeps them safe
And brings them home."
