A Fragment
When she is forward, querulous, or wild,
Thou knowest, Abba, how in each offence
I stint not patience lest I wrong the child,
Mistaking for revolt defect of sense—
For wilfulness mere sprightliness of mind;
Thou knowest how often, seeing, I am blind.
• • • • • • • •
And how, when twice, for something grievous done,
I could but smite, and though I lightly smote,
I felt my heart rise strangling in my throat;
And when she wept I kissed the poor red hands.
All these things, Father, a father understands;
And am I not Thy son?
• • • • • • • •
Thou’st seen how closely, Abba, when at rest
My child’s head nestles to my breast;
And how my arm her little form enfolds,
Lest in the darkness she should feel alone;
And how she holds
My hands, my hands, my two hands in her own!
• • • • • • • •
A little easeful sighing
And restful turning round,
And I, too, on Thy love relying,
Shall slumber sound.
poem by Guy Wetmore Carryl from The Garden of Years and Other Poems (1893)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Related quotes
The Prodigal's Return
I reach my hand to thee!
Stoop; take my hand in thine;
Lead me where I would be,
Father divine.
I do not even know
The way I want to go,
The way that leads to rest:
But, Thou who knowest me,
Lead where I cannot see,
Thou knowest best.
Toys, worthless, yet desired,
Drew me afar to roam.
Father, I am so tired;
I am come home.
The love I held so cheap
I see, so dear, so deep,
So almost understood.
Life is so cold and wild,
I am thy little child -
I WILL be good.
poem by Edith Nesbit
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The True Knowledge
Thou knowest all; I seek in vain
What lands to till or sow with seed -
The land is black with briar and weed,
Nor cares for falling tears or rain.
Thou knowest all; I sit and wait
With blinded eyes and hands that fail,
Till the last lifting of the veil
And the first opening of the gate.
Thou knowest all; I cannot see.
I trust I shall not live in vain,
I know that we shall meet again
In some divine eternity.
poem by Oscar Wilde
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Ex Ore Infantium
Little Jesus, wast Thou shy
Once, and just so small as I?
And what did it feel like to be
Out of Heaven, and just like me?
Didst Thou sometimes think of THERE,
And ask where all the angels were?
I should think that I would cry
For my house all made of sky;
I would look about the air,
And wonder where my angels were;
And at waking 'twould distress me--
Not an angel there to dress me!
Hadst Thou ever any toys,
Like us little girls and boys?
And didst Thou play in Heaven with all
The angels that were not too tall,
With stars for marbles? Did the things
Play Can you see me? through their wings?
And did Thy Mother let Thee spoil
Thy robes, with playing on OUR soil?
How nice to have them always new
In Heaven, because 'twas quite clean blue!
Didst Thou kneel at night to pray,
And didst Thou join Thy hands, this way?
And did they tire sometimes, being young,
And make the prayer seem very long?
And dost Thou like it best, that we
Should join our hands to pray to Thee?
I used to think, before I knew,
The prayer not said unless we do.
And did Thy Mother at the night
Kiss Thee, and fold the clothes in right?
And didst Thou feel quite good in bed,
Kissed, and sweet, and thy prayers said?
Thou canst not have forgotten all
That it feels like to be small:
And Thou know'st I cannot pray
To Thee in my father's way--
When Thou wast so little, say,
Couldst Thou talk Thy Father's way?--
So, a little Child, come down
And hear a child's tongue like Thy own;
Take me by the hand and walk,
And listen to my baby-talk.
To Thy Father show my prayer
(He will look, Thou art so fair),
And say: 'O Father, I, Thy Son,
Bring the prayer of a little one.'
And He will smile, that children's tongue
Has not changed since Thou wast young!
poem by Francis Thompson
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Sonnet: Take Thou My…
Take Thou my hands and use them as Thy own;
Thou knowest well their optimum usage;
And I might use them almost like a clown!
Abuse/ misuse them ’fore I reach old-age.
Take Thou my eyes and use them as Thy own,
So that they see just things they’re meant to see;
For I might see things, on which Thou couldst frown,
Or fail to see the things I must freely.
Take Thou my mind and use it as Thy own,
My ears and nose and tongue and skin as well;
My thoughts and actions should not let me down;
Let not my soul forever burn in Hell.
Take Thou my soul and use it as Thy own,
Before I sin and Thou must me disown!
6-8-2001
Dedicated to all Righteous and God-fearing
People of this world!
poem by John Celes
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Christmas, 1880
Great-hearted child, thy very being
The Son
,
Who know'st the hearts of all us prodigals;-
For who is prodigal but he who has gone
Far from the true to heart it with the false?-
Who, who but thou, that, from the animals',
Know'st all the hearts, up to the Father's own,
Can tell what it would be to be alone!
Alone! No father!-At the very thought
Thou, the eternal light, wast once aghast;
A death in death for thee it almost wrought!
But thou didst haste, about to breathe thy last,
And call'dst out
Father
ere thy spirit passed,
Exhausted in fulfilling not any vow,
But doing his will who greater is than thou.
That we might know him, thou didst come and live;
That we might find him, thou didst come and die;
The son-heart, brother, thy son-being give-
We too would love the father perfectly,
And to his bosom go back with the cry,
Father, into thy hands I give the heart
Which left thee but to learn how good thou art!
There are but two in all the universe-
The father and his children-not a third;
Nor, all the weary time, fell any curse!
Not once dropped from its nest an unfledged bird
But thou wast with it! Never sorrow stirred
But a love-pull it was upon the chain
That draws the children to the father again!
O Jesus Christ, babe, man, eternal son,
Take pity! we are poor where thou art rich:
Our hearts are small; and yet there is not one
In all thy father's noisy nursery which,
Merry, or mourning in its narrow niche,
Needs not thy father's heart, this very now,
With all his being's being, even as thou!
poem by George MacDonald
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The Disciple
Thou wilt my hands employ, though others find
No work for those who praise thy name aright;
And in their worldly wisdom call them blind,
Whom thou has blest with thine own spirit's sight.
But while they find no work for thee to do,
And blindly on themselves alone rely;
The child must suffer what thou sufferest too
And learn from him thou sent e'en so to die;
Thou art my Father, thou wilt give me aid
To bear the wrong the Spirit suffers here;
Thou hast thy help upon the mighty laid,
In him I trust, nor know to want or fear,
But ever onward walk secure from sin,
For he has conquered every foe within.
poem by Jones Very
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Abba, Daddy, Father
Abba, did you smile as you
saw the perfect world you’d just created?
And did you weep when Adam fell
and Eve tumbled after?
Abba, do I have the right to call you,
Abba, Daddy, Father?
Daddy, did you jump for joy as
you saw your son, born to human parents?
And did you write the Angels words
as Glory shone all around?
Daddy, did the shepherds have the right to call you,
Abba, Daddy, Father?
Father, did you laugh out loud as
Mary and Joseph searched for their son, and
Found him in the Temple, with you?
Did you allow the telling off that he got?
Father, did you give Mary and Joseph the right to call you,
Abba, Daddy, Father?
Abba, did your heart break asunder as
the Angels thundered to go and rescue
Your Son from the cross? Did you cry raindrops
when you had to turn your back, because of sin?
Abba, did you deny the Christ the right to call you,
Abba, Daddy, Father?
Daddy, did the Angels turn and ask
You, why? How did you reply when the words
choked you? Were you waiting to destroy
the world that crucified your Son?
Daddy, did you think about taking away our right to call you,
Abba, Daddy, Father?
Father, did you yell at Satan, when
he thought he had won? Did you let
him believe it, and then showed him Your Son
by your side? Did Satan fly in rage?
Father, how did you feel, when Satan fell from grace, no longer to call you,
Abba, Daddy, Father?
Abba, was it your loud shout that woke the
world on that Easter morn? Was it you who
moved the stone? Did you close the eyes of
the guards, as Glory shone around?
Abba, did you allow Mary the right to call you,
Abba, Daddy, Father?
Daddy, did you smile when you saw
the perfect Son, alive, alive, ALIVE?
And did the Angels party, and are they
partying still? Will it be long before you
come again? And does the earth rest?
Do we have the right to call you, Abba, Daddy, Father?
Father, do you always remember your gifts
and promises to us, yet forget the sins?
Can I feel your arms around me? Am I
blessed by your Son? And, Father, do I
still have the right to call on you? Do I
still have the right to call you Abba, Daddy, Father?
Abba, Daddy, Father, do you rejoice in those
names? Do you look at your children
and remember their names, one by one?
And can I stretch out my hand and get
one to one attention? Abba, Daddy, Father,
that is what I call you, by right, My Abba, My Daddy, My Father.
poem by Steve Gregory
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Only A Dream
METHOUGHT I saw thee yesternight
Sit by me in the olden guise,
The white robes and the pain foregone,
Weaving instead of amaranth crown
A web of mortal dyes.
I cried, 'Where hast thou been so long?'
(The mild eyes turned and mutely smiled
'Why dwellest thou in far-off lands?
What is that web within thy hands?'
--'I work for thee, my child.'
I clasped thee in my arms and wept;
I kissed thee oft with passion wild:
I poured fond questions, tender blame;
Still thy sole answer was the same,--
'I work for thee, my child.'
'Come and walk with me as of old.'
Then camest thou, silent as before;
We passed along that churchyard way
We used to tread each Sabbath day,
Till one trod earth no more.
I felt thy hand upon my arm,
Beside me thy meek face I saw,
Yet through the sweet familiar grace
A something spiritual could trace
That left a nameless awe.
Trembling I said, 'Long years have passed
Since thou wert from my side beguiled;
Now thou'rt returned and all shall be
As was before.'--Half-pensively
Thou answered'st--'Nay, my child.'
I pleaded sore: 'Hadst thou forgot
The love wherewith we loved of old,--
The long sweet days of converse blest,
The nights of slumber on thy breast,--
Wert thou to me grown cold?'
There beamed on me those eyes of heaven
That wept no more, but ever smiled;
'Love only is love in that Home
Where I abide--where, till thou come,
I work for thee, my child.'
If from my sight thou passedst then,
Or if my sobs the dream exiled,
I know not: but in memory clear
I seem these strange words still to hear,
'I work for thee, my child.'
poem by Dinah Maria Mulock Craik
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The Song Of The Wage-Slave
When the long, long day is over, and the Big Boss gives me my pay,
I hope that it won't be hell-fire, as some of the parsons say.
And I hope that it won't be heaven, with some of the parsons I've met --
All I want is just quiet, just to rest and forget.
Look at my face, toil-furrowed; look at my calloused hands;
Master, I've done Thy bidding, wrought in Thy many lands --
Wrought for the little masters, big-bellied they be, and rich;
I've done their desire for a daily hire, and I die like a dog in a ditch.
I have used the strength Thou hast given, Thou knowest I did not shirk;
Threescore years of labor -- Thine be the long day's work.
And now, Big Master, I'm broken and bent and twisted and scarred,
But I've held my job, and Thou knowest, and Thou will not judge me hard.
Thou knowest my sins are many, and often I've played the fool --
Whiskey and cards and women, they made me the devil's tool.
I was just like a child with money; I flung it away with a curse,
Feasting a fawning parasite, or glutting a harlot's purse;
Then back to the woods repentant, back to the mill or the mine,
I, the worker of workers, everything in my line.
Everything hard but headwork (I'd no more brains than a kid),
A brute with brute strength to labor, doing as I was bid;
Living in camps with men-folk, a lonely and loveless life;
Never knew kiss of sweetheart, never caress of wife.
A brute with brute strength to labor, and they were so far above --
Yet I'd gladly have gone to the gallows for one little look of Love.
I, with the strength of two men, savage and shy and wild --
Yet how I'd ha' treasured a woman, and the sweet, warm kiss of a child!
Well, 'tis Thy world, and Thou knowest. I blaspheme and my ways be rude;
But I've lived my life as I found it, and I've done my best to be good;
I, the primitive toiler, half naked and grimed to the eyes,
Sweating it deep in their ditches, swining it stark in their styes;
Hurling down forests before me, spanning tumultuous streams;
Down in the ditch building o'er me palaces fairer than dreams;
Boring the rock to the ore-bed, driving the road through the fen,
Resolute, dumb, uncomplaining, a man in a world of men.
Master, I've filled my contract, wrought in Thy many lands;
Not by my sins wilt Thou judge me, but by the work of my hands.
Master, I've done Thy bidding, and the light is low in the west,
And the long, long shift is over . . . Master, I've earned it -- Rest.
poem by Robert William Service
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Suppliant
Father, I lift my hands to Thee:
Reject me not!
Mine eyes are blind, I cannot see.
Be Thou the lamp unto my feet,—
Guide to the rock of my retreat;
O Light, my darkness cries to Thee!
Reject me not!
Father, mine eyes with tears are wet,
Reject me not!
Though Thou forgive, shall I forget?
Nay, though thy mercy fall like rain,
My spirit still must bear the pain
And burden of a vast regret.
Reject me not!
To whom, unfriended, should I flee?
Reject me not!
To whom, my Father, but to Thee?—
Ah! 'T was thy child forgave the sin
Of the repentant Magdalen
And blessed the thief on Calvary!—
Reject me not!
poem by Florence Earle Coates from Poems (1898)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Child of a Day
Child of a day, thou knowest not
The tears that overflow thy urn,
The gushing eyes that read thy lot,
Nor, if thou knewest, couldst return!
And why the wish! the pure and blest
Watch like thy mother o'er thy sleep.
O peaceful night! O envied rest!
Thou wilt not ever see her weep.
poem by Walter Savage Landor
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Endless Time
Time is endless in thy hands, my lord.
There is none to count thy minutes.
Days and nights pass and ages bloom and fade like flowers.
Thou knowest how to wait.
Thy centuries follow each other perfecting a small wild flower.
We have no time to lose,
and having no time we must scramble for a chance.
We are too poor to be late.
And thus it is that time goes by
while I give it to every querulous man who claims it,
and thine altar is empty of all offerings to the last.
At the end of the day I hasten in fear lest thy gate be shut;
but I find that yet there is time.
poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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Fare Thee Well
Fare thee well! and if for ever,
Still for ever, fare thee well:
Even though unforgiving, never
'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel.
Would that breast were bared before thee
Where thy head so oft hath lain.
While that placid sleep came o'er thee
Which thou ne'er canst know again;
Would that breast, by thee glanced over,
Every inmost thought could show!
Then thou wouldst at last discover
'Twas not well to spurn it so.
Though the world for this commend thee--
Though it smile upon the blow,
Even its praises must offend thee,
Founded on another's woe:
Though my many faults defaced me,
Could no other arm be found,
Than the one which once embraced me,
To inflict a cureless wound?
Yet, oh yet, thyself deceive not;
Love may sink by slow decay,
But by sudden wrench, believe not
Hearts can thus be torn away:
Still thine own its life retaineth,
Still must mine, though bleeding, beat;
And the undying thought which paineth
Is - that we no more may meet.
These are words of deeper sorrow
Than the wail above the dead;
Both shall live, but every morrow
Wake us from a widow'd bed.
And when thou wouldst solace gather,
When our child's first accents flow,
Wilt thou teach her to say 'Father!'
Though his care she must forego?
When her little hands shall press thee,
When her lip to thine is press'd
Think of him whose prayer shall bless thee,
Think of him thy love had bless'd!
Should her lineaments resemble
Those thou never more may'st see,
Then thy heart will softly tremble
With a pulse yet true to me.
All my faults perchance thou knowest,
All my madness none can know;
All my hopes where'er thou goest,
Wither, yet with thee they go.
Every feeling hath been shaken;
Pride, which not a world could bow,
Bows to thee--by thee forsaken,
Even my soul forsakes me now:
But 'tis done--all words are idle
Words from me are vainer still;
But the thoughts we cannot bridle
Force their way without the will.
Fare thee well! thus disunited,
Torn from every nearer tie
Sear 'd in heart, and lone, and blighted,
More than this I scarce can die.
A Sweet Lullaby
Come, little babe; come, silly soul,
Thy father's shame, thy mother's grief,
Born, as I doubt, to all our dole
And to thyself unhappy chief:
Sing lullaby, and lap it warm,
Poor soul that thinks no creature harm.
Thou little think'st and less dost know
The cause of this thy mother's moan,
Thou want'st the wit to wail her woe,
And I myself am all alone.
Why dost thou weep? why dost thou wail?
And knowest not yet what thou dost ail.
Come, little wretch - ah, silly heart,
Mine only joy, what can I more?
If there be any wrong thy smart,
That may the destines implore,
'Twas I, I say, against my will;
I wail the time, but be thou still.
And dost thou smile? Oh, thy sweet face,
Would God himself he might thee see;
No doubt thou wouldst soon purchase grace,
I know right well, for thee and me,
But come to mother, babe, and play,
For father false is fled away.
Sweet boy, if it by fortune chance
Thy father home again to send,
If death do strike me with his lance,
Yet mayst thou me to him commend;
If any ask thy mother's name,
Tell how by love she purchased blame.
Then will his gentle heart soon yield;
I know him of a noble mind.
Although a lion in the field,
A lamb in town thou shalt him find.
Ask blessing, babe, be not afraid;
His sugared words hath me betrayed.
Then mayst thou joy and be right glad,
Although in woe I seem to moan,
Thy father is no rascal lad,
A noble youth of blood and bone;
His glancing looks, if he once smile,
Right honest women may beguile.
Come, little boy, and rock asleep,
Sing lullaby, and be thou still;
I that can do nought else but weep
Will sit by thee and wail my fill.
God bless my babe, and lullaby,
From this thy father's quality.
poem by Nicholas Breton
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Underneath Are The Everlasting Arms
Father into your hands I place
the things I cannot do.
Father into your hands I give
what Irene's going through.
Father into your hands I place
the surgeons and nurses too.
For I know I always can trust you
Father into yours hands I place
my friends and family.
Father into your hands I place
everything that troubles me.
Father into your hands I place
the things I cannot see.
Because You care for Irene and me.
in My Father's Hands
You ask me how I cope with life as it is
I simply turn to you and say
It is in my Father’s hands
For it is he alone who my every
Care fully understands
I may fall beneath my heavy load
I may cry and sometimes feel alone too
But it is then that I am reminded
To place all my cares
In my Father’s hands
My hurts I
Give to God who can
Mend all that is broken apart
All my cares are in my Father’s hands
You don’t have to remain sad
Feeling hopeless or alone
For you too only need to
Place all of your cares
In the Father’s hands!
©Copyright 2005 Becky LaPrarie
poem by Becky LaPrarie
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Hymn 64
Adoption.
1 John 3:1ff; Gal. 4:6.
Behold what wondrous grace
The Father has bestowed
On sinners of a mortal race,
To call them sons of God!
'Tis no surprising thing
That we should be unknown;
The Jewish world knew not their king,
God's everlasting Son.
Nor doth it yet appear
How great we must be made;
But when we see our Savior here,
We shall be like our Head.
A hope so much divine
May trials well endure;
May purge our souls from sense and sin,
As Christ the Lord is pure.
If in my Father's love
I share a filial part,
Send down thy Spirit like a dove,
To rest upon my heart.
We would no longer lie
Like slaves beneath the throne;
My faith shall Abba, Father, cry,
And thou the kindred own.
poem by Isaac Watts
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Your blood on your hands
Look at thy hands
What sawth thou?
A hand of a clean soul
Who has thou mudered?
No one
But yet why lieth blood on thy hands?
There is a question you dareth not answer
Has thou taketh the fruit of which I commandeth thee not?
Yet not anyones' blood
But thy blood on thy hands
poem by Ivan Chizurum Ezeigbo
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He...a father...an insentient.
He is a father,
Walking door to door,
Running here and there,
Begging the sympathy,
Ragging his own,
Only for his child,
Who is now in coma,
Fighting with death,
He...a father...an insentient.
He is a father,
Staring at the body,
His eyes are foggy and wet,
That body belongs to his son,
Who is now past only,
Only for a few dollars,
Or for a sympathy of kind hearts,
He...a father...an insentient.
He is not alone,
Lots like him around us,
Waiting for our hands,
Seeking for our helps,
He can not but cry,
He is so incapable,
Only see his child to loose,
Far away from him,
He...a father...an insentient.
You, me, anyone of us,
Would be one like him,
Please raise our hands,
Save a life of a child,
Not for the sake of god,
Not for him or his child,
Just for us, our child,
Not let them to die for dollars,
Not let to sigh and cry,
Any man of poverty like him,
He...a father...an insentient.
poem by Kafil Uddin Raihan.
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These Hands
Given by God -are these hands!
One can do many things -with these hands
With love one can help a strangers' hands-
Allay and comfort the elders' gnarled hands
Clean sweep and mop with these hands
Decorate and embellish with these hands
Cook and serve food to all with these hands
Clasp a loved one with these hands
Applaud one with pleasure with these hands
Dig the soil and form a garden with these hands
Hold a book to read with these hands
Write and post a card with these hands
Type a poem to cheer someone with these hands
Draw a picture and sew clothes with these hands
Paint a beautiful scene to amuse with these hands
Play a game of volley ball or cricket with these hands
Swim the waters and row a boat with these hands
Pick the harvests and fruits with these hands
Feed the animals and birds with these hands
Seek the warmth of dear ones with these hands
Feel the soft petals of a flower with these hands
Fold the palms to pray with these hands
Given by God - are these hands!
poem by Chandra Thiagarajan
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