Life would still be with us a wound or toy,
A cloud without the sun,—O Babe, O Boy,
A Man of Mother pure, with no alloy,
O risen God!
Thou, God and King, didst “mingle in the game,”
(Cease, all fears; cease!)
For love of us,—not to give Virgil’s fame
Or Croesus’ wealth, not to make well the lame,
Or save the sinner from deserved shame,
But for sweet Peace!