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A Parable
I took a little child's hand...
I took a little child's hand in mine. He and I were to walk together for awhile. I was to lead him to the Father. It was a task that overcame me, so awful was the responsibility. And so I talked to the child of the Father. I painted the sternness of His face, were the child to do something to displease Him. I spoke of the child's goodness as something that would appease the Father's wrath. He walked under the tall trees and I said that the Father had power to send them crashing to the ground struck by his thunderbolts. We walked in the sunshine; I told him of the greatness of the Father who made the burning blazing sun. And one twilight we met the Father. The child hid behind me. He was afraid. He would not look up at the face so loving; he remembered my picture. He would not take the Father's hand; I was between the child and the Father. I wondered, I had been so conscientious, so serious.
I took a little child's hand in mine. I was to lead him to the Father. I felt burdened with the many things I had to teach him. We did not ramble; we hastened from one spot to another spot. We compared the leaves of the different trees. While the child was questioning me about it, I hurried him away to chase a butterfly. Did he chance to fall asleep, I awakened him; lest he should miss something I wanted him to see. I poured into his ears the stories he should know, but we were interrupted often by the wind a blowing, of which we must study, by the gurgling brook which we must trace to its source. And then in the twilight we met the Father. The child merely glanced at Him and then his gaze wandered in a dozen different directions. The Father stretched forth his hand. The child was not interested enough to take it. Feverish spots burned his cheeks. He dropped exhausted to the ground and fell asleep. Again I was between the child and the Father. I wondered. I had taught him so many things.
I took a little child's hand in mine, to lead him to the Father. My heart was full of gratitude for the glad privilege. We walked slowly, I united my steps with the short steps of the child. We spoke of the things the child noticed. Sometimes we picked the Father's bright flowers and stroked their soft petals and loved their bright colors. Sometimes it was one of the Father's birds. We saw the eggs that were laid. We wondered, elated at the care it gave its young. Often we told stories of the Father. I told them to the child and the child told them to me again. Sometimes we stopped to rest, leaning against one of the Father's tree, and letting his cool air cool our brow, never speaking. And then in the twilight, we met the Father. This child's eyes shone. He looked lovingly, trustingly, eagerly, up into the Father's face. He put his hand into the Father's hand. I was for the moment forgotten. I was content.
Author Unknown
Submitted by Richard
I took a little child's hand...
I took a little child's hand in mine. He and I were to walk together for awhile. I was to lead him to the Father. It was a task that overcame me, so awful was the responsibility. And so I talked to the child of the Father. I painted the sternness of His face, were the child to do something to displease Him. I spoke of the child's goodness as something that would appease the Father's wrath. He walked under the tall trees and I said that the Father had power to send them crashing to the ground struck by his thunderbolts. We walked in the sunshine; I told him of the greatness of the Father who made the burning blazing sun. And one twilight we met the Father. The child hid behind me. He was afraid. He would not look up at the face so loving; he remembered my picture. He would not take the Father's hand; I was between the child and the Father. I wondered, I had been so conscientious, so serious.
I took a little child's hand in mine. I was to lead him to the Father. I felt burdened with the many things I had to teach him. We did not ramble; we hastened from one spot to another spot. We compared the leaves of the different trees. While the child was questioning me about it, I hurried him away to chase a butterfly. Did he chance to fall asleep, I awakened him; lest he should miss something I wanted him to see. I poured into his ears the stories he should know, but we were interrupted often by the wind a blowing, of which we must study, by the gurgling brook which we must trace to its source. And then in the twilight we met the Father. The child merely glanced at Him and then his gaze wandered in a dozen different directions. The Father stretched forth his hand. The child was not interested enough to take it. Feverish spots burned his cheeks. He dropped exhausted to the ground and fell asleep. Again I was between the child and the Father. I wondered. I had taught him so many things.
I took a little child's hand in mine, to lead him to the Father. My heart was full of gratitude for the glad privilege. We walked slowly, I united my steps with the short steps of the child. We spoke of the things the child noticed. Sometimes we picked the Father's bright flowers and stroked their soft petals and loved their bright colors. Sometimes it was one of the Father's birds. We saw the eggs that were laid. We wondered, elated at the care it gave its young. Often we told stories of the Father. I told them to the child and the child told them to me again. Sometimes we stopped to rest, leaning against one of the Father's tree, and letting his cool air cool our brow, never speaking. And then in the twilight, we met the Father. This child's eyes shone. He looked lovingly, trustingly, eagerly, up into the Father's face. He put his hand into the Father's hand. I was for the moment forgotten. I was content.
Author Unknown
Submitted by Richard
