They say that man is migh­ty,
He go­verns land and sea;
He wields a migh­ty scep­ter
O’er less­er pow­ers that be;
By a migh­ti­er power and stron­ger,
Man from his throne is hurled,
And the hand that rocks the cra­dle
Is the hand that rules the world.

Blessings on the hand of wo­man!
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;
Mother’s first to guide the stream­lets,
From them souls un­rest­ing grow;
Grow on for the good or ev­il,
Sunshine streamed or dark­ness 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 wo­man!
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 curled;
For the hand that rocks the cra­dle
Is the hand that rules the world.