That from our hearts all falseness flies.

It is the children’s hour

When purest thoughts arise.

The years roll by and leave their taint

Of sin upon us, and the weight

Of self-wrought grief, until we faint

Beneath the burden grown so great.

Fretted by sight of others’ pain,

The voiceless suffering of the weak;

“Wherefore?” we cry, but all in vain,