GROWING.


 


 


AND what have you been doing


Through the last happy year?"


I asked a tiny maiden;


Who answered, "Auntie, dear,


I've been just growing higher,


Papa says, like a weed.


Come see my birthday measure;


You'll think me grown indeed."


She tripped away and left me;


Her words remained behind,


A silvery little echo


Of music in my mind.


Not taller only—higher!


What weed could do so well?


I changed the "weed" to "flower,"


My dainty Isabel.


What work so sweet as growing


For any Christian child,


Who, like the gentle Saviour,


Would fain be meek and mild?


He grew in wisdom truly,


In grace and stature too,


In favor with the Father,


In beauty daily new.


That home where Mary pondered,


And hid within her heart


Thoughts solemn, glad, and sacred,


Which made her quick tears start,—


The home where Christ was growing!


It must have been a shrine


Lit up with beams of heaven


By that fair Child divine.


Our children are not sinless.


Alas! We see with pain


Upon their baby features


Full oft the shadow-stain;


And they must meet the tempter


And fight with many a foe;


But they shall win the battle,


If like the Lord they grow.


What joy, when growing higher


And leaving folly's ways,


They tune their lips to sweetness,


And walk life's path with praise,


Just growing every hour,


And finding all things prove


A help to upward training,


Devised by sovereign love.


And we, whose birthday measures


Are not in penciled lines


On wall or door, are growing,


If Christ our mind inclines


To study well his image


And like the Master grow,


Till we shall see his glory


Where living waters flow.


 


 


M. F. Sangster.