’Tis sweet, when first the infant’s voice
Lisps to the parent of his joys,
Words like no other;
And says,--as a bright, radiant smile
Lights up his countenance the while--
“I love thee, mother.”
’Tis sweet, to watch that mother’s eye
Beam, like a star in yonder sky,
Radiant, though mild;
To hear her speak the glad reply,--
Her joyous bosom heaving high--
“I love thee, child.”
’Tis pleasant, when at midnight hour
Beneath some fragrant myrtle bower
With flow’rs inwove,
The happy swain, with trembling tone
Reveals his heart to _her_ alone--
“’Tis _thee_ I love:”
And then, to mark the rising sigh,
The blushing cheek, the laughing eye,
In _turn_ appear;
The swelling breast, the _throbbing_ there,
The playful struggle--_all_ declare,
“I love thee, dear.”
* * * * *
’Tis sweet, when man doth contrite bow
Before his God, his spirit low,
And seek His favor.
With deep submission as he kneels,
He speaks the joy his bosom feels,
“I love thee, Savior.”
But sweeter far, when _God_ hath said,
“The offering which _I_ have made,
Thine heart hath won.
Through _Him_ will I now hear thy cries,
Through that ‘_atoning sacrifice_,’
‘I love thee, _son_.’”