When the little Jesus had been fed
And warmly covered in His bed,
I wonder, if like other folks,
His mother told Him little jokes.
Or if she washed His little shirt
All soiled from playing in the dirt,
And smoothed it out with loving care
Before she hung it on a chair.
Then, after she had fixed a latch,
Sat quietly and sewed a patch.
Perhaps she tiptoed with the lamp
To see if Jesus' curls were damp.
I wonder if she knelt and prayed
About the bills that were unpaid.
These precious bedtimes Mary had
Before she lost her little lad.