The Hand That Rocks the Cradle Rules the World by William Ross Wallace (1819-1881)
Angels guard its strength and grace.
In
the palace, cottage, hovel,
Oh, no matter where the place;
Would that never
storms assailed it,
Rainbows ever gently curled,
For the hand that rocks the
cradle
Is the hand that rules the world.
Infancy's the tender fountain,
Power
may with beauty flow,
Mothers first to guide the streamlets,
From them souls
unresting grow —
Grow on for the good or evil,
Sunshine streamed or evil hurled,
For the hand that rocks the cradle
Is the hand that rules the world.
Woman, how
divine your mission,
Here upon our natal sod;
Keep – oh, keep the young heart
open
Always to the breath of God!
All true trophies of the ages
Are from
mother-love impearled,
For the hand that rocks the cradle
Is the hand that rules
the world.
Blessings on the hand of women!
Fathers, sons, and daughters cry,
And
the sacred song is mingled
With the worship in the sky —
Mingles where no
tempest darkens,
Rainbows evermore are hurled;
For the hand that rocks the
cradle
Is the hand rules the world.
