By every bruise upon this little hand I heal with balm and kiss away the grief, Better the Father's love I understand, Better my own torn spirit finds relief. By all those hours the little hand grew white And ah! so sadly frail upon the bed, My darkened soul drew forth into the light, My wandering feet to heaven's gates were led. Yea, by the very times this little hand Is snatched in wilfulness away from mine, Better my own revolts I understand, And lay, O God! more trustful hands in Thine. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE GOLDEN CORPSE by STEPHEN VINCENT BENET LA NOCHE TRISTE by ROBERT FROST ERASMUS by EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON |