Blessed are the pure in heart. 
So often we are told 
Of saints whose names and daily deeds 
Inscribed in books of gold 
Are certain to be seeing God 
In well-rewarding joy - 
But when I see the pure in heart 
I see a little boy. 
He shins up trees and barks his knees, 
Has lizards in a box; 
He loves to read of dinosaurs, 
Collects bright-colored rocks. 
His grubby hands are gentle 
On the coats of dogs and birds, 
And he has a quiet wisdom in naivete of words. 
I listen to his little prayers 
At night with quiet joy - 
And when I hear the pure in heart 
I hear a little boy. 
He hasn't reached the age as yet 
To question and to doubt; 
He gravely takes his mother's words, 
And that's what life's about. 
Each day is gold, a shining thing 
Without a wrong alloy - 
And when I hold the pure in heart 
I hold a little boy. 

this page created and maintained by

© 2000 GlacierRose@crosswinds.net

This page hosted by Get your own Free Home Page

Info