My infant, Lord, to Thee I gladly bring
She is of earth, and yet a heav’nly thing;
As the nude birdling in its mother’s nest,
So is this baby on my anxious breast.
Oh, like an angel, may she ever be!
And think, and speak, and act thro’ life for Thee!
A birdling, I would teach its tiny wings
To soar up, where each bright archangel sings,
To join the songs of flaming seraphim,
And with the ransomed sing th’eternal hymn.
But Thou, and Thou alone, canst give it might
To spread her wings for regions out of sight;
To nestle in the glories of a throne,
Which none can reach but love, and love alone.
Then come, oh come, my baby take and train
For life’s great work! She must not live in vain;
Of mundane birth, a more than mundane thing,
To Thee, O Lord, my baby now I bring.
To Thee I consecreate my helpless child,
Whose nature may be rough, and crook’d and wild,
If Thou dost not, with plastic power divine,
Remold her in Thine image, yes in Thine.
Breathe in her soul the life—th’eternal life,
Nor hatred, pride, nor lust be ever rife
Within her heart; but as an angel, she
May ever feel, and speak, and act for Thee.