by Gwen Belson Taylor

Blessed are the pure in heart.

So often we are told

Of saints whose names and daily deeds

Inscribed in books 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;

He loves to read of dinosaurs,

Collects bright-colored rocks.

His grubby hands are gentle

On the coats of dogs and birds,

And he has a quiet wisdom in naivete of words.

I listen to his little prayers

At night with quiet joy -

And when I hear the pure in 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 words,

And that's what life's about.

Each day is gold, a shining thing

Without a wrong alloy -

And when I hold the pure in heart

I hold a little boy.