When tiny babes we touch on brow and breast,
Making them God's the while,
We murmur: " Take and keep, Thy keep is best, "
And tearfully we smile.

And when, lapsed back to childhood's witless ways,
All helpless in our hands,
Poor souls, they walk as in a dim-lit haze —
What myriads in what lands!

Then, with awed lips, we look to the divine,
Striving to still our fears,
And say: " They seem not ours, they must be Thine, " —
Wetting them with our tears.