I LOVE THEE.

’Tis sweet, when first the infant’s voice Lisps to the parent of his joys, Words like no other; And says,—as a bright, radiant smile Lights up his countenance the while— “I love thee, mother.” ’Tis sweet, to watch that mother’s eye Beam, like a star in yonder sky, Radiant, though mild; To hear her speak the glad reply,— Her joyous bosom heaving high— “I love thee, child.” ’Tis pleasant, when at midnight hour Beneath some fragrant myrtle bower With flow’rs inwove, The happy swain, with trembling tone Reveals his heart to her alone— “’Tis thee I love:” And then, to mark the rising sigh, The blushing cheek, the laughing eye, In turn appear; The swelling breast, the throbbing there, The playful struggle—all declare, “I love thee, dear.” ’Tis sweet, when man doth contrite bow Before his God, his spirit low, And seek His favor. With deep submission as he kneels, He speaks the joy his bosom feels, “I love thee, Savior.” But sweeter far, when God hath said, “The offering which I have made, Thine heart hath won. Through Him will I now hear thy cries, Through that ‘atoning sacrifice,’ ‘I love thee, son.’”