Child of my tenderest love, I know thy care;
Seek not to bear alone what I would share,
Strange though it seem to thee, I laid it there
With My own hand.

The burden presses sore, My child, I know,
Ofttimes thy bitter tears will overflow;
And thou dost wonder why I leave it so,
And yet love thee!

Think not I laid this on thee willingly,
Or that in wrath, I seek to punish thee.
Ah! no; My child is very dear to Me;
‘Tis for thy good.

Child of My love come near to Me, and I
Will help thee understand the reason why
I mixed for thee this cup of agony,
And caused thee pain.

Sometimes of late, I’ve missed thee from My side,
First in the morning, then at eventide.
Shall it be ever thus? Oh! wilt thou hide
Thyself from Me?

Have I not shown My readiness to bear
My portion of thy grief, thy pain, thy care?
Tell Me, My child, canst thou refuse to share
My sympathy?

It was for thee I left My home above,
Suffered on earth, then died, that I might prove
My true, unchangeable, undying love.
Could I do more?

Wilt thou not come, and find in Me thy rest?
Wilt thou not stay, and lean upon My breast?
Wilt thou not trust that My way is the best,
Child of My love?

Bring Me thy heaviest woes, and thou shalt see
How they will lose their weight when shared by Me;
Thou wilt prove the sweetness of My sympathy,
Child of My love. T. P.