THE children bear our froward mood, Patient, enduring still. Our anger like a heat in the blood That strikes with little skill. Because our way is choked with tares And fears beset our sleep; Because we weary Heaven with prayers Lest that the children weep. The children must be warmed and fed, The children most adored: Give them this day their daily bread! What of to-morrow, Lord? Therefore we strike them at their play And grieve their hearts and chill: O Lord, be patient with the clay Thou'st moulded to Thy will. See, Lord, the children understand! Loyal and piteous, They take the wounding from Love's hand. See, Lord,—they bear with us. |