To-day I saw a little, calm-eyed child,— <br />Where soft lights rippled and the shadows tarried <br />Within a church's shelter arched and aisled,— <br />Peacefully wondering, to the altar carried; <br />White-robed and sweet, in semblance of a flower; <br />White as the daisies that adorned the chancel; <br />Borne like a gift, the young wife's natural dower, <br />Offered to God as her most precious hansel. <br />Then ceased the music, and the little one <br />Was silent, with the multitude assembled <br />Hearkening; and when of Father and of Son <br />He spoke, the pastor's deep voice broke and trembled. <br />But she, the child, knew not the solemn words, <br />And suddenly yielded to a troublous wailing, <br />As helpless as the cry of frightened birds <br />Whose untried wings for flight are unavailing. <br />How much the same, I thought, with older folk! <br />The blessing falls: we call it tribulation, <br />And fancy that we wear a sorrow's yoke, <br />Even at the moment of our consecration. <br />Pure daisy-child! Whatever be the form <br />Of dream or doctrine,—or of unbelieving,— <br />A hand may touch our heads, amid the storm <br />Of grief and doubt, to bless beyond bereaving; <br />A voice may sound, in measured, holy rite <br />Of speech we know not, tho' its earnest meaning <br />Be clear as dew, and sure as starry light <br />Gathered from some far-off celestial gleaning. <br />Wise is the ancient sacrament that blends <br />This weakling cry of children in our churches <br />With strength of prayer or anthem that ascends <br />To Him who hearts of men and children searches; <br />Since we are like the babe, who, soothed again, <br />Within her mother's cradling arm lay nested, <br />Bright as a new bud, now, refreshed by rain: <br />And on her hair, it seemed, heaven's radiance rested.<br /><br />George Parsons Lathrop<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/christening-2/
