Classic Poem

We are children very small,
But we love on God to call,
And we know the lambs he will
Carry in his bosom still.

He who loves the budding flower,
Calls us in our morning hour,
He who bids us seek his face,
Fills that morning hour with grace.

Israel gave to God of old,
All the firstlings of his fold,
And the fruits that earliest came,
Were devoted just the same.

So we give, dear Lord, to thee,
Each our earliest infancy;
Better gift than oil or wine,
Saviour, make the offering thine.

As our years are gliding by,
Fit us, Jesus, for the sky,
Shield thy little ones from ill,
Be our kind protector still.

Dear Redeemer, when at last,
Jordan's billows shall be past,
Safe upon the farther shore,
May we land, to sin no more.