Then, there are other things,
Dear Lord . . . more little strings
That pull my heart. Now Baby feels her
feet
She loves to run outside into the street
And Jane's hands are so full, she'll never
see. . . .
And I'm quite sure the clean clothes won't
be aired --
At least, not properly.
And, oh, I can't, I really can't be spared --
My little house calls so!

I know.
And I am waiting here to help and bless.
Lay down your head. Lay down your hope-
lessness
And let Me speak.
You are so weary, child, you are so weak.
But let us reason out
The darkness and the doubt;
This torturing fear that tosses you about.

I hold the universe. I count the stars.
And out of shortened lives I build the
ages. . . .

But, Lord, while such high things Thy
thought engages,
I fear -- forgive me -- lest