Songs of Innocence
He doth give His joy to all;
He becomes an infant small,
He becomes a man of woe,
He doth feel the sorrow too.
Think not thou canst sigh a sigh,
And they Maker is not by;
Think not thou canst weep a tear,
And the Maker is not near.
Oh, He gives us His joy,
That our grief He may destroy;
Till our grief is fled and gone
He doth sit by us and moan.
William Blake