Pinker than the roses that enrich a summer’s day,
Splashing in the bath tub or just kicking them in play,
Nothing in the skies above or earth below as sweet,
As fascinating to me as a baby’s little feet.
Every toe a rosebud, on a chubby, dimpled tree,
Little legs as rounded and as plump as they can be,
Peeping through the nighties, or kicking in the air,
Angel wings aren’t prettier than baby’s feet, I swear.
Not a sign of travel, not a sign of care,
Not a sign of burdens they have had to bear,
Just the pinkest pinkness and the plumpest plumpness known,
Kicking in their gladness when the covers back are thrown.
Little feet that never yet have stepped aside to sin,
Never trampled others down in selfishness to win,
Never felt the bruises or the weariness of strife,
Aren’t they good to look at as they’re starting out in life?
Little feet, I wonder, as I watch you kick in play,
Peeping through your nightie at the ending of the day,
Wonder where you’ll wander in the years that lie ahead,
And I pray the Lord to guard you o’er the paths that you must tread.
