At Four Weeks
His tiny fists are clenched above his head -
his fair, round face is sweet in infant sleep -
And as I finger fringes of the shawl
That lies so slight and soft against my dress,
I pray for him:
Lord, may he love this place -
This house of thine, erected by thy grace
Where thy dear Word is taught, thy praises sung.
Oh, true, he is so very, very young
And he may cry within these walls, or shout
In happy, babyish mischief, or call out
To Daddy in the pulpit. True, he may
Not understand what Daddy has to say -
The implications of the Trinity
Or what "atonement" means to him and me,
It may be, first, that folding hands in prayer
Is all the fellowship his soul can share.
But as his Savior grew, oh, may he grow.
In sure and silent ways, may his heart know
That thou art here. And may my conduct be
A commentary louder than my speech
To reach where Daddy's sermons may not reach.
The singing is resumed; the Scripture's read...
The tiny fists now stir above his head.
A little dream-smile flits across his face.
Oh, may he learn to love this holy place!
Miriam Sieber Lind
"And, ye fathers,
provoke not your children to wrath:
but bring them up in the nurture and admonition of the Lord."
Epheesians 6:4
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