A Child's Hand

No sleep in the early morning, No rest until the late evening, There is a budding child of mine Rising, in joy, as I write each line. In adoring eyes, you lifted your hand to mine Asking, quite patiently, would I find The lost object of your affection Of which, having caused your affliction of whimpering, I graciously consented. Happy like a fool, the joy of having replaced That which could not hold any other place But that of your heart, you lifted your hand Into mine, and I rose to stand, In that gentle caress of my hand in your hand. And, in wondrous love of all His creation, I came to know that which is given to the patient And to the kind. It is a good love, Your love, that is, which comes to prove, There is neither loss nor sorrow, from you, my dove.