Upon her quiet face can rest our eyes,
Yet long we for it, as a weary bird
Longs all in vain to rest upon a cloud
That heavenward floats. And yet there’s solace still
In musing on her faith so strong and pure,
That recognized, through pain, God’s every wish,
And dreaded not to taste death’s cup if so
By Him decreed.
I was not there to hold
Her hand; it chilled within the orphan’s palm