A wise and learned man was he,
Men called him good and just;
But his wisdom seemed like foolishness,
By that weak child's simple trust.
Now, when the morn of Christmas came,
And the long, long week was done,
Poor Gottlieb, who scarce could sleep,
Rose up before the sun,
And hastened to his mother;
But he scarce might speak for fear,
When he saw her wondering look, and saw
The Burgomaster near.
He wasn't afraid of the Holy Babe,
Nor his mother, meek and mild;
But he felt as if so great a man
Had never been a child.
Amazed the poor child looked, to find
The hearth was piled with wood,
And the table, never full before,
Was heaped with dainty food.
Then, half to hide from himself the truth,
The Burgomaster said,
While the mother blessed him on her knees,
And Gottlieb shook for dread:
"Nay, give no thanks, my good dame,
To such as me for aid;
Be grateful to your little son,
And the Lord, to whom he prayed!"
Then turning round to Gottlieb,
"Your written prayer, you see,
Came not to whom it was addressed,
It only came to me!
"'Twas but a foolish thing you did,
As you must understand;
For though the gifts are yours, you know,
You have them from my hand."
Then Gottlieb answered fearlessly,
Where he humbly stood apart,
"But the Christ-child sent them all the same;
He put the thought in your heart!"