I fear t’will baffle all my art to trace
Lines that would even shadow forth the grace
That shone so brightly in our Saviour’s face.
My soul’s ideal will no more compare
With Christ the real, so divinely fair
Than rough hewn stones, with gems both rich and rare.
And yet I fain would try my utmost skill
To plan and mould a form that surely will
Some glimpses of that matchless face reveal.
I hear a little footstep on the stair—
“Eva, come in, and tell me who stands there;
Thou knowest His name, say what is it, my dear?”
The child looked up, but with a puzzled air,
In that small head, one thing alone seemed clear—
“It is a good man’s face, my father dear.”
Ah! well my Eva’s verdict is too true:
This patient hand must now its task renew,
It is love’s labor, and will win love’s due.
Creator-God, guide this hand of mine
That from its touch there may such beauties shine
As will disclose its origin divine.
“Come, Eva, and beside me take thy place,
Look yonder, love, and tell me whose sweet face
Beams down upon thee with such tender grace?”
The little head, sore puzzled seemed to be,
Till nestling ‘tween my knees, “O, ‘tis”, said she,
“Suffer little ones to come unto ME.”
ML 06/07/1925