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The little hands that never sought Earth's prizes, worthless all as sands, What gift has death, God's servant, brought The little hands?

We ask: but love's self silent stands, Love, that lends eyes and wings to thought To search where death's dim heaven expands.

Ere this, perchance, though love know nought, Flowers fill them, grown in lovelier lands, Where hands of guiding angels caught The little hands.