I KNOW , Lord, Thou hast sent Him—
Thou art so good to me!—
But Thou hast only lent Him,
His heart's for Thee!

I dared—Thy poor handmaiden—
Not ask a prophet-child
Only a boy-babe laden
For earth—and mild.

But this one Thou hast given
Seems not for earth or me!
His lips flame truth from heaven,
And vanity

Seem all my thoughts and prayers
When He but speaks Thy Law;
Out of my heart the tares
Are torn by awe!

I cannot look upon Him,
So strangely burn His eyes—
Hath not some grieving drawn Him
From Paradise?

For Thee, for Thee I 'd live, Lord!
Yet oft I almost fall
Before Him—O forgive, Lord,
My sinful thrall!

But even when He was nursing,
A baby at my breast,
It seemed He was dispersing
The world's unrest.

Thou bad'st me call Him ‘Jesus,’
And from our heavy sin
I know he shall release us,
From Sheol win.

But, Lord, forgive! the yearning
That He may sometimes be
Like other children, learning
Beside my knee,

Or playing, prattling, seeking
For help—comes to my heart
Ah sinful, Lord, I'm speaking—
How good Thou art!