Little girlie, kneeling there, Speaking low your evening prayer, In your cunning little nightie With your pink toes peeping through, With your eyes closed and your hands Tightly clasped, while daddy stands In the doorway, just to hear the "God bless papa," lisped by you, You don't know just what I feel, As I watch you nightly kneel By your trundle bed and whisper Soft and low your little prayer! But in all I do or plan, I'm a bigger, better man Every time I hear you asking God to make my journey fair. Little girlie, kneeling there, Lisping low your evening prayer, Asking God above to bless me At the closing of each day, Oft the tears come to my eyes, And I feel a big lump rise In my throat, that I can't swallow, And I sometimes turn away. In the morning, when I wake, And my post of duty take, I go forth with new-born courage To accomplish what is fair; And, throughout the live-long day, I am striving every way To come back to you each evening And be worthy of your prayer. Thoughts of a Father We've never seen the Father here, but we have known the Son, The finest type of manhood since the world was first begun. And, summing up the works of God, I write with reverent pen, The greatest is the Son He sent to cheer the lives of men. Through Him we learned the ways of God and found the Father's love; The Son it was who won us back to Him who reigns above. The Lord did not come down himself to prove to men His worth, He sought our worship through the Child He placed upon the earth. How can I best express my life? Wherein does greatness lie? How can I long remembrance win, since I am born to die? Both fame and gold are selfish things; their charms may quickly flee, But I'm the father of a boy who came to speak for me. In him lies all I hope to be; his splendor shall be mine; I shall have done man's greatest work if only he is fine. If some day he shall help the world long after I am dead, In all that men shall say of him my praises shall be said. It matters not what I may win of fleeting gold or fame, My hope of joy depends alone on what my boy shall claim. My story must be told through him, for him I work and plan, Man's greatest duty is to be the father of a man. When a Little Baby Dies When a little baby dies And its wee form silent lies, And its little cheeks seem waxen And its little hands are still, Then your soul gives way to treason, And you cry: "O, God, what reason, O, what justice and what mercy Have You shown us by Your will? "There are, O, so many here Of the yellow leaf and sere, Who are anxious, aye, and ready To respond unto Your call; Yet You pass them by unheeding, And You set our hearts to bleeding! "O," you mutter, "God, how cruel Do Your vaunted mercies fall!"