My little son, whose face I never saw,
Who could not wait to bless your father ’s eyes
With wonder, but in such mysterious wise
Slipped from our world bound hard by frost and war
But warm for you with love, in silent awe
We ponder, in a shrouded deep surmise,
Your swifter summons to the world that lies
In our own path, beyond the selfsame door.
Was there a need, some work there, sudden and great,
Your work? Or do you there prepare our home?
Lest we be timid, touched with fear and sin,
Will you beside that mighty portal wait?
Who, when your father and your mother come,
Will take us by the hand and lead us in.