His Baby Hand
His baby hand that clutched at straw
Was nailed against coarse wood for me,
Thus, being born an outcast waif
Was the least of his infamy:
The infant eyes that closed in sleep
Grimaced in pain to set me free,
The exile from kIng Herod's wrath
Was suffered for my liberty.
His cry that crept into the night,
Screamed in distress with every blow,
The breast he sought for nourishment,
Shuddered with grief to see him so;
The body wrapped in swaddling clothes
Too early wound in bands of woe:
And yet God's son who died for us
Is God and king of all we know.