OF SUCH IS THE KINGDOM.
What has a child that a man has not,
When “of such is the kingdom” on high?
At play in the home, at work in the school,
Oh, what does he care for the soul, or its rule,
Or for aught that hints of the sky?
Ay, what does he serve but his own desires,
Impell’d by a fancy that toils or tires?
His moods flow on like currents in brooks,
Or ruffled or smooth, to answer the crooks.
All things that are sweet or fair to see
He buzzes and bustles about like a bee.
He would work his arms at ball and bow,
Though he never had known it would make them grow.—
What virtue is his?—While a man can doubt
The truth within him, nor show it without,
The child holds fast, unfetter’d by lies,
A faith that he never has dared to despise,
Expression that knows no other control
Than that of the Maker who moves the soul,
A beauty of wisdom that works to obey
A holy, because a natural way;
And that may he have that a man may not.
What has a man that a child has not,
When “of such is the kingdom” on high?
Oh, he has been train’d by the world and the school
To curb his character in by rule
Till the rule of his life is a lie.
A man like that would spurn to find
In God’s designs the quest of his mind.
He crams and drams for an appetite
That nothing on earth can sate or excite.
His words are as dry as the words of a book,—
Your sentence is ready, wherever you look.
His views—he never saw any thing strange:
If he did, some fellow might question his range.
And all of profit he tests by pelf,
And all of manhood measures by self,
Forgets that God rules the world he is at,
And stars himself as its autocrat.
Alas for reason with such a judge!
If ever you whisper or smile or budge—
You may study and ponder and prove and pray—
But he has a sneering, cynical way;
And that may he have that a child has not.
What has a man that a child has too,
When “of such is the kingdom” on high?
He knows that life is better’d by rules,
But he knows how split the wise and the fools
When judging of rules they apply.
He feels that life worth living proceeds
From nature that prompts the bent of deeds;
And he lets the reins of his being go,
Whenever the soul moves upward so.
If he look to God through self or His Book,
Or leading the way through a bishop’s crook,
He welcomes whatever has worth in the new,
Though it grew outside of his Timbuctoo.
For modest he is, and loves to find
Earth blest by minds that differ in kind.
In short, to the simple, the frail, and the few
He is fill’d with charity through and through;
And, waiving your reason its right of control,
Trusts God for enough truth left in your soul;
And though he may tell you he doubts your way,
He has much to love in spite of his “nay”;
And that may a man and a child have too.