The Lamb by William Blake

Little lamb, who made thee?
Dost thou know who made thee?
Gave thee life, and bid thee feed
By the stream and o'er the mead;
Gave thee clothing of delight,
Softest clothing, woolly, bright;
Gave thee such a tender voice,
Making all the vales rejoice?

Little lamb, who made thee?
Dost thou know who made thee?
Little lamb, I'll tell thee;
Little lamb, I'll tell thee;
He is called by thy name,
For He calls Himself a Lamb.
He is meek, and he is mild,
He became a little child,
I a child, and thou a lamb
We are called by his name.
Little lamb, God bless thee!
Little lamb, God bless thee!

I've watched you now a full half-hour;
Self-poised upon that yellow flower
And, little Butterfly! indeed
I know not if you sleep or feed.
How motionless!-not frozen seas
More motionless! and then
What joy awaits you, when the breeze
Hath found you out among the trees,
And calls you forth again!
This plot of orchard-ground is ours;
My trees they are, my Sister's flowers;
Here rest your wings when they are weary;
Here lodge as in a sanctuary!
Come often to us, fear no wrong;
Sit near us on the bough!
We'll talk of sunshine and of song,
And summer days, when we were young;
Sweet childish days, that were as long
As twenty days are now.

By poet Sarah Mirene:

Father of mine some years ago,
You showed me the way I ought to go;
You led my feet past the treach'rous sand,
By the gentle clasp of your own strong hand.
Father of mine, let me thank you for,
The prayers you prayed and the burden you bore.
Like a guiding star through the tempest's strife,
All your precepts have shone on my path of life.
Father of mine, when the time has passed,
And the work of my life is complete at last;
When I step ashore on the glory strand,
With a grateful heart I will clasp your hand.