They seldom show Him with a smile.
Always His face is sad to see,
As if a jest could never be,
Nor He be merry for a while.
The kindly humor that could pat
The brows of boys He chanced to see
And say: "Let children come to me!"
No brush has ever painted that!
The man who loved a little child
And walked the common ways of men,
Though troubled often, now and then
With those about Him, surely smiled.
I fancy as I read His word
I hear Him chuckling, soft and sweet,
Telling to Mary, at His feet,
Some curious thing He’d seen or heard.
He must have had a twinkling eye,
Which danced at times with gentle mirth,
So greatly to be loved on earth,
So bravely on the cross to die.
By Edgar Guest
Thank you Lin
Sorry Grama's site no