Abba, in Thine eternal years
Bethink Thee of our fleeting day;
We are but clay;
Bear with our foolish joys, our foolish tears,
And all the wilfulness with which we pray!
I have a little maid who, when she leaves
Her father and her father's threshold, grieves,
But being gone, and life all holiday,
Forgets my love and me straightway;
Yet, when I write,
Kisses my letters, dancing with delight,
Cries “Dearest father!” and in all her glee
For one brief live-long hour remembers me.
Shall I in anger punish or reprove?
Nay, this is natural; she cannot guess
How one forgotten feels forgetfulness;
And I am glad thinking of her glad face,
And send her little tokens of my love.
And Thou—wouldst Thou be wroth in such a case?
And crying Abba, I am fain
To think no human father's heart
Can be so tender as Thou art,
So quick to feel our love, to feel our pain.
When she is froward, querulous or wild,
Thou knowest, Abba, how in each offence
I stint not patience lest I wrong the child,
Mistaking for revolt defect of sense,
For wilfulness mere spriteliness of mind;
Thou know'st how often, seeing, I am blind;
How when I turn her face against the wall
And leave her in disgrace,
And will not look at her or speak at all,
I long to speak and long to see her face;
And how, when twice, for something grievous done,
I could but smite, and though I lightly smote,
I felt my heart rise strangling in my throat;
And when she wept I kissed the poor red hands.
All these things, Father, a father understands;
And am not I Thy son?
Abba, in Thine eternal years
Bethink Thee of our fleeting day;
From all the rapture of our eyes and ears
How shall we tear ourselves away?
At night my little one says nay,
With prayers implores, entreats with tears
For ten more flying minutes' play;
How shall we tear ourselves away?
Yet call, and I'll surrender
The flower of soul and sense,
Life's passion and its splendour,
In quick obedience.
If not without the blameless human tears
By eyes which slowly glaze and darken shed,
Yet without questionings or fears
For those I leave behind when I am dead.
Thou, Abba, know'st how dear
My little child's poor playthings are to her;
What love and joy
She has in every darling doll and precious toy;
Yet when she stands between my knees
To kiss good-night, she does not sob in sorrow,
“Oh, father, do not break or injure these!”
She knows that I shall fondly lay them by
For happiness to-morrow;
So leaves them trustfully.
And shall not I?
Whatever darkness gather
O'er coverlet or pall,
Since Thou art Abba, Father,
Why should I fear at all?
Thou'st seen how closely, Abba, when at rest,
My child's head nestles to my breast;
And how my arm her little form enfolds,
Lest in the darkness she should feel alone;
And how she holds
My hands, my hands, my two hands in her own?
A little easeful sighing
And restful turning round,
And I too, on Thy love relying,
Shall slumber sound.