By every bruise upon this little hand I heal with balm and kiss away the grief, Better the Father's love I understand, Better my own torn spirit finds relief. By all those hours the little hand grew white And ah! so sadly frail upon the bed, My darkened soul drew forth into the light, My wandering feet to heaven's gates were led. Yea, by the very times this little hand Is snatched in wilfulness away from mine, Better my own revolts I understand, And lay, O God! more trustful hands in Thine. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...MONADNOC by RALPH WALDO EMERSON CREDO by EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON THE HOUSE OF LIFE: 27. HEART'S COMPASS by DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI THE WOOD-CUTTERS WIFE by WILLIAM ROSE BENET LINES TO GRIEF by ANN ELIZA BLEECKER THE WANDERER: 2. IN FRANCE: AT HOME DURING THE BALL by EDWARD ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON |