by Katharine Wisner McCluskey
I do not kneel at night, to say a prayer;
I think of spiders and I do not dare!
My knees are thin, and easily they could
Gather a splinter, roughened from the wood.
I’m cold, and bed is warm; I’m better there,
Than in the outer darkness of a prayer!
But when the morning wakes up, pink and cool,
And sunrise makes our peach-blooms glory-full;
And God comes smiling down the garden-walk,
I run and slip my hand in His, and talk!
I tell Him that I am a naughty lamb;
He laughs and says He made me as I am!