His crown the viewless aureole;
No sword, no seal, no royal cloak;
Twelve tired and dusty working folk
Make of his court the tale and sum.
The Christ is coming! Let him come.
The King is coming! Every year
He comes for hearts that hold him dear,
Borne in as on that by-gone day
With palm-boughs strewed along his way,
No longer clad in lowly guise,