A mother sat in the rosy dawn
Of a morning bright and fair,
Her arms are round her firstborn son,
Her breath is in his hair.
My little son to my God I will give
Ere yet his tongue can lisp;
And all the days my boy shall live
Shall be spent in His service rich.
But the years pass on and he grows apace,
His limbs are round and free,
His feet can tread the meadow path,
His eyes its wonders see.
But the mother is busied with household care,
And ever, like Martha of old,
Her heart is troubled with many things,
And the Saviour’s love untold.
The little child is bountifully fed,
His form is daintily robed,
And mind and heart are stored with good--
Only the soul is starved.