Who made such haste as theirs who rose and trod
To Bethlehem the dew-encumbered grass,
Trustful to see the showing forth of God
And the Word come to pass;
With how much more than home-spun Israelites’
Poor hungry glimpse of Godhead are you blest
Whom Mary shows for more than mortal nights
The Jewel on her breast.
Yet, as one kneeling churl might chance to think
Of the wan herd behind their wattled bars,