As to her child a mother calls,
“Come to me, child; come near!”
Calling, in silent intervals,
The Master’s voice I hear.
But does he call me verily?
To have me does he care?
Why should he seek my poverty,
My selfishness so bare?
The dear voice makes his gladness brim,
But not a child can know
Why that large woman cares for him,
Why she should love him so!
Lord, to thy call of me I bow,
Obey like Abraham:
Thou lov’st me because thou art thou,
And I am what I am!
Doubt whispers, “Thou art such a blot”
“He cannot love poor thee:”
If what I am he loveth not,
He loves what I shall be.
Nay, that which can be drawn and wooed,
And turned away from ill,
Is what his father made for good:
He loves me, I say still!