The stir of life again.
A Child’s soft treble in the temple, heeded
By doctors who about him listening drew;
“Father, forgive them,” on dark Calvary pleaded,
“They know not what they do.”
The songs are there which echoed through dim ages,
And chants of kneeling priests at pagan shrines,
The speech of prophets writ on history’s pages
In God-directed lines.