Helen Hunt Jackson (1830–1885)

LIKE a cradle rocking, rocking,

Silent, peaceful, to and fro,

Like a mother’s sweet looks dropping

On the little face below,

Hangs the green earth, swinging, turning,

Jarless, noiseless, safe, and slow;

Falls the light of God’s face bending

Down and watching us below.

And as feeble babes that suffer,

Toss, and cry, and will not rest,

Are the ones the tender mother

Holds the closest, loves the best,—

So when we are weak and wretched,

By our sins weighed down, distressed,

Then it is that God’s great patience

Holds us closest, loves us best.