by Edgar Albert Guest
The doctor leads a busy life, he wages war with death;
Long hours he spends to help the one who's fighting hard for breath;
He cannot call his time his own, nor share in others' fun,
His duties claim him through the night when others' work is done.
And yet the doctor seems to be God's messenger of joy,
Appointed to announce this news of gladness: "It's a boy!"
In many ways unpleasant is the doctor's round of cares,
I should not like to have to bear the burdens that he bears;
His eyes must look on horrors grim, unmoved he must remain,
Emotion he must master if he hopes to conquer pain;
Yet to his lot this duty falls, his voice he must employ
To speak to man the happiest phrase that's sounded: "It's a boy!"
I wish 'twere given me to speak a message half so glad
As that the doctor brings unto the fear-distracted dad.
I wish that simple words of mine could change the skies to blue,
And lift the care from troubled hearts, as those he utters do.
I wish that I could banish all the thoughts that man annoy,
And cheer him as the doctor does, who whispers: "It's a boy."
Whoever through the hours of night has stood outside her door,
And wondered if she'd smile again; whoe'er has paced the floor,
And lived those years of fearful thoughts, and then been swept from woe
Up to the topmost height of bliss that's given man to know,
Will tell you there's no phrase so sweet, so charged with human joy
As that the doctor brings from God--that message: "It's a boy!"
Last updated January 14, 2019