Classic Poem

And are the children prophets, then,
Or have they lived before,
To speak the words so simple-wise,
And babble spirit-lore?

Their wonder plays on questions quaint,
All vision and surprise,
Like clumsy gates whose careless swing
Reveals half Paradise.

Yes, little May, you've said it, —
" God" is his other name;
Ours always ends with Father's;
Yours is the very same.

Our earth is one home only,
Our Father only one,
And all the folks are brothers,
And every one his son.

And up and down the city
Wherever you have trod,
It's Mary-, Maud-, and Katy-,
John-God, and Willie-God.

O Life and Love, in whom we are,
From whom, to whom all lives,
I thank thee for the christening
Thy little prophet gives.

The simple Bible long ago
Hinted the secret well,
When child-faith named its hero-babes,
" Judah" and " Israel."

Why strangely sounds the name divine
Blending with ours to-day?
Is God an ancient lost afar,
A fashion gone for aye?

Ah, no, but thought too awful grows
For name or speech or look:
In silent floods the secret pours
That babbled in the brook.