Never a baby soul fluttered away
But I must tenderly treasure the clay,
Holding it close to my motherly breast,
Hiding it under my mantle to rest;
To rest till the Father who builded the skies
Shall waken the dust, and bid it arise.
Every sweet babe, in my bosom I hold,
Is a bright angel to never grow old.
Wee, waxen hands so quietly folded;
Little, still feet—divinely they’re molded!
Eyes that once sparkled and yet to awake
When Resurrection’s bright morning shall break.