What! all our burdens—every little trial—
The cares that seem so very, very small!
We know that heavy griefs He soothes and lightens,
But does He note, and will He carry all?
When at our waking everything seems dreary,
And all day long our spirits are at strife,
with little, never-ending, ever changing
Annoyances that fill the thread of life,
And when we do our best, yet fail of pleasing,
And they to whom our very lives are given,
So little comprehend—so little heed us—
Do these things touch the heart of Christ in
heaven?
And may we tell Him all things nor offend Him?
Will He not weary of our ceaseless plaint?
And does He care to have us bring before Him
Our every need with child-like unconstraint?
O yes! thou never yet hadst any trial,
However trivial it seemed to be,
That did not hold the sympathy of Jesus,
And bind His heart still closer unto thee.
We sometimes wonder why our Lord doth place us
Within a sphere so narrow, so obscure
That nothing we call work can find an entrance—
There’s only room to suffer, to endure.
And in His word we have His own assertion
For every need shall full supply be given,
And to assure our timid hearts He tells us
That every sparrow’s fall is known in heaven.
He says that we out-value many sparrows:
‘Tis He appoints our way—our joy, our woe:
There’s nothing that we may not carry to Him—
The merest trifle that our lives can know.
Do mothers close their hearts to childish sorrow?
From baby’s trouble do they turn away?
Do constant calls upon their care estrange them?
Ah, no! the charge grows dearer day by day.
So we are dear to Jesus. Yea far dearer,
For even mother-love sometimes grows cold,
But O, the tender, tireless love of Jesus!
That love forever new—forever old.