The Unfinished Prayer

“now I lay,”—repeat it, darling.   “Lay me,” lisped the tiny lips Of my daughter, kneeling, bending   O’er her folded finger-tips. “Down to sleep”—“To sleep,” she murmured,   And the curly head bent low; “I pray the Lord,” I gently added;   “You can say it all, I know.” “Pray the Lord”—the sound came faintly,   Fainter still—“My soul to keep;” Then the tired head fairly nodded,   And the child was fast asleep. But the dewy eyes half opened   When I clasped her to my breast, And the dear voice softly whispered,   “Mamma, God knows all the rest.” Oh, the trusting, sweet confiding   Of the child heart! Would that I Thus might trust my Heavenly Father,   He who hears my feeblest cry.