“At the same time came the disciples unto Jesus, saying, Which is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven? And Jesus called a little child unto him, and set him in the midst of them, and said, Verily I say unto you, Except ye be converted, and become as little children, ye shall not enter into the kingdom of heaven. Whosoever therefore shall humble himself as this little child, the same is greatest in the kingdom of heaven. And whoso shall receive one such little child in my name receiveth me.” — Matt. 18:1-5.
LONG since, you asked me to portray
“A little child,” and I essay
To do it for you now:
Dependent, simple is his way,
He lives, and knows not how.
Self-conscious, subtle, ne’er is he,
He dwells in love’s unfathomed sea,
Imbibing sovereign grace;
God stoops in majesty, to be
His strength, his hiding-place.
Borne out of self, by power Divine,
He nothing knows of “me” or “mine,”
His ignorance is wise;
His course is pure, his instincts fine,
He weareth no disguise.
Surrounded by immensity,
He lives within the unity.
Of peace Divine, profound;
His native sphere is verity,
Too unfrequented ground!
He seeks not evil’s depths to find,
He keeps a quiet, even mind,
Nor thinks of self at all;
In every change content, resigned,
Howe’er the lot may fall.
Unconscious in his innocence,
In infantine indifference
He goes as he is led;
If carried, smiles his recompense,
Or, cheerful, walks instead.
Without concern he doth receive
Whate’er his loving parents give,
Returning their caress, —
The only thanks he can conceive
For all their tenderness!
Those little laughings of delight,
Those tiny hands, outstretching quite
Toward her who loves him best,
Are all his science, all his might;
Her bosom is his nest.
In fine, the smallest, feeblest child
Is pliant, simple, docile, mild,
Kept in dependence true;
It cries, and even laughs the while,
Is weak, defenseless too.
An infant’s mind no doubts perplex,
No knotty points its spirit vex,
Its guide ‘twill not gainsay;
It never anxiously reflects
On dangers by the way.
An infant, so dependent still,
Finds no occasion for a will;
It takes the given good,
Nor ever thinks to wait until
They analyse its food.
It cannot do the slightest thing
To make itself, when dirty, clean;
‘Tis dressed, ‘tis put to sleep;
It cannot e’en say words that mean
“How well the charge you keep!”
A child is happy anywhere,
Beside the fire, in open air,
In days both dark and bright;
God makes the little child his care,
His pattern, his delight.
MDME. T. J. M. B. DE LA MOTHS GUYON.
Translated Oct. 1St 1867.