I'm sometimes very weary, And life at best seems vain, The future's dark and dreary, The cause I can't explain; I'm in that giant's castle That Bunyan tells about, And held there as a vassal Of grim despair and doubt. Like pilgrims in his story, I've found a key of hope That leads me into glory, And gives me strength to cope With troubles beyond measure (I'm sure you'll understand), That key's my year-old treasure With dimpled, outstretched hand. When my day's work is ended, And I come home to rest, That little hand extended Drives trouble from my breast. Despair, with kindred allies, Is banished like the mist Which flies from wooded valleys When by the sunlight kissed. I take those dimpled fingers And press them to my heart, And in my thoughts there lingers The story they impart. When overwhelmed with sadness My memory I'll command To cheer my soul with gladness By baby's outstretched hand. |