The First Born.

A poem by Charles Hamilton Musgrove

I.

"He has eyes like the Christ,"
The mother said, and smiled;
"He will be wise and good,
My wondering little child.
God grant him strength to do
Whate'er his tasks may be,
But spare him, if Thou wilt,
O, spare him Calvary!"


II.

Grim where the black bars cast
Their shadows o'er his bed,
He waits to pay the cost
Of blood his hands have shed.
The mother kneels and sobs:
"God, he shall always be,
In spite of Cain's red brand,
A stainless child to me."