By Gwen Belson Taylor

Blessed are the pure of heart

So often we are told

Of saints whose names and daily deeds

Inscribed in words of gold

Are certain to be seeing god In well-rewarding joy-

But when I see the pure in heart

I see a little boy

He shins up trees and barks his knees

Has lizards in a box

Loves to read of dinosaurs

Collects bright-coloured rocks

His grubby hands are gentle

On the coats of dogs and birds

He has a quite wisdom

In naivete of words

I listen to his little prayer

At night with quiet joy

And when I hear the pure of heart

I hear a little boy

He hasn’t reached the age as yet

To question and to doubt

He gravely takes his mother’s word

And that’s what life’s about

Each day is gold, a shining thing

Without a wrong alloy

And when I hold the pure of heart

I hold a little boy

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