WITHIN his downy cradle,
A lovely infant slept,
While o’er his dreamless slumber
Her watch the mother kept.
She gazed upon her firstborn,
So helpless and so fair,
Then, by his cradle kneeling,
Breathed forth a fervent prayer.
“Oh, Father!” thus she murmured,
“From thy bright throne in heaven
Look down in tender mercy
On the babe whom thou hast given.
On us, his feeble parents,
The needed grace bestow,
That we may train our darling
In the way that he should go.
“Alas! this little creature,
So pleasant in our eyes,
Is like a folded blossom
Wherein the canker lies.
Sin lurks within his nature,
A worm of deadly power,
Which will, if grace prevent not,
Destroy our precious flower.
“Like all the sons of Adam,
Our child is born in sin;
O Lord, may he experience
Thy saving work within.
He cannot see thy kingdom,
Nor heavenly bliss obtain,
Except, by thy good Spirit,
He first be born again.
“I ask not for my darling
The riches worldlings’ prize;
May he have lasting treasure,
Laid up beyond the skies.
Lord, guide him with thy counsel
Along life’s stormy way,
And afterward receive him
To realms of endless day.
“Oh, look on us, thy servants,
So weak and sin-defiled,
And keep us, Lord, from making
An idol of our child.
Give us thy gracious Spirit,
Uphold us lest we fall,
And in our hearts’ affections
May Christ be all in all!”
Wellingborough.
THEODORA.