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OUR FATHER WHO ART IN HEAVEN.
"OUR FATHER WHO ART IN HEAVEN."
GREAT God, and wilt thou condescend
To be my father and my friend?
I a poor child, and thou so high,
The Lord of earth, and air, and sky!
Art thou my Father? Canst thou bear
To hear my poor, imperfect prayer?
Or stoop to listen to the praise
That such a little one can raise ?
Art thou my Father? Let me be
A meek, obedient child to thee;
And try in word, and deed, and thought
To serve and please thee as I ought.
Art thou my Father? I'll depend
Upon the care of such a friend;
And only wish to do, and be,
Whatever seemeth good to thee.
Art thou my Father? Then at last,
When all my days on earth are past,
Send down and take me, in thy love,
To be thy better child above.
THERE sitteth a dove, so white and fair.
All on the lily spray,
And she listeneth how to Jesus Christ
The little children pray.
Lightly she spreads her friendly wings,
And to Heaven's gate hath sped,
And unto the Father in heaven she bears
The prayers which the children have said.
And back she comes from Heaven's gate,
And brings that dove so mild! —
From the Father in heaven who hears her speak
A blessing on every child.
Then children lift up a pious prayer,
It hears whatever you say,
That heavenly dove, so white and fair,
All on the lily spray.
TRANS. BY MISS MARY HOWITT.
As children once to Christ were brought,
That he might bless them there,
So now we little children ought
To seek the same by prayer.
And as so many years ago
Poor babes his pity drew,
I'm sure he will not let me go
Without a blessing too.
Then while, this favor to implore,
My little hands are spread,
Do thou thy sacred blessing pour,
Dear Jesus, on my head.
WHAT lovely infant can this be,
That in the little crib I see?
So sweetly on the straw it lies,
It must have come from Paradise.
Who is that lady kneeling by,
And gazing on, so tenderly?
O, that is Mary, ever blest;
How full of joy her holy breast!
What man is that who seems to smile
And look so blissful all the while?
'Tis holy Joseph, good and true;
The infant makes him happy too.
Who makes the crib so bright and dear?
What voices sing so sweetly here?
Ah! see, behind the window-pane,
The little angels looking in!
Who are these people kneeling down,
With crooked sticks, and hands so brown?
The shepherds; on the mountain-top
The little angels woke them up.
The ox and ass, how still and mild
They stand beside the holy child;
His little body underneath
They warm so kindly with their breath.
Hail, holy cave! though dark thou be,
The world is lighted up by thee,
Hail, holy Babe! creation stands
And moves upon thy little hands.
I THINK, when I read the sweet story of old, —
How when Jesus was here among men,
He once called little children as lambs to his fold, -
I should like to have been with them then.
I wish that his hands had been placed on my head,
That his arms had been thrown around me ; And that I might have seen his kind look, when he said, "Let the little ones come unto me.'
Yet still to his footstool in faith I may go,
And there ask for a share of his love;
And I know, if I earnestly seek him below,
I shall see him and hear him above,-
In that beautiful place he has gone to prepare
For all those who are washed and forgiven;
And many dear children are gathering there,
"For of such is the Kingdom of Heaven."
I WANT to be like Jesus,
So lovely and so meek;
For no one marked an angry word,
That ever heard him speak.