Alas! not mine baptismal robe unstained
To offer thee with pure and child-like trust:
Dark are its folds with clinging wayside dust.
Yet even this poor raiment, world-profaned,
Thou wilt not scorn, since veils it heart contrite
Grieving so sore its trespass in thy sight.
MONDAY.
Rabbi, one little moment only, wait
Till I kneel down and wet with tears of shame
Thy blessed feet, thy garment’s sacred hem—