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Restless and oft complaining, on his bed
     Tossed a fair child, as burned along his veins
     The fire of fever with consuming pains,
And ever and anon he raised his head
From the hot pillow, and beseeching said—
     “Water! Oh, give me water!” By his side
     The healer stood, and tenderly replied—
“Wait yet awhile—this potion take instead.”
     “No,” cried the child—“’tis poison and will kill!”
His father took the cup—“My son, be sure
This is a nauseous draught, but it may cure—
     Will my boy drink it?” Then said he “I will—
I’m not afraid ‘tis poison now—I know
You would not give it father, were it so.”

Oh, trusting childhood! I would learn of thee
     This lesson of pure faith, and to my heart
     So bind it that it never may depart—
Therefore shalt thou henceforth my teacher be:
For in thy perfect trust the sin I see
     Of my own doubts and fears. The cup of Life,
     Drugged with the bitterness of tears and strige,
Shall I not drink it when ‘tis proffered me?
     Yes—for ‘tis mingled by a Father’s hand
And given in love—for, rightly understood,
Trials and pains tend over to our good,
     Healing the soul that for the better land
Thirsts with a deathless longing! Welcome pain,
Whose and is bliss and everlasting gain!