1 A sweet, golden head had forgotten life's way,
Asleep on its pillow of roses,
Wee hands shutting close as if tired of play,
Like buds which the summer discloses;
The beautiful song of my birdie was still,
And over the lips of my blossom
The disciples lay white as the frost on the rill,
When a spirit sang low in my spirit at will,
"He carries the lambs in his bosom,
He carries the lambs in his bosom."

2 There's never a lamb from love's sorrowful fold
But wanders in fields that are vernal,
And never a bud hid away from the cold
But blooms in the summer eternal;
When storms sweep the hill, and the night gathers deep,
I think of my paradise blossom;
I hear the same song for the weary that weep,
The weakest are safest, for over the steep,
"He carries the lambs in his bosom,
He carries the lambs in his bosom."