I fall not on my sad clay face before ye;
I look on His. I know
My spirit which dilateth with the woe
Of His mortality,
May well contain your glory.
Yea, drop your lids more low.
Ye are but fellow-worshipers with me!
Sleep, sleep, my worshiped One!
We sat among the stalls at Bethlehem,
The dumb kine from their fodder turning them,