Lord, I have lost a toy With which I love to play; And as you were yourself a boy Of just my age to-day, O Son of Mary, would you mind To help me now my toy to find?
Long, long before the Babe could speak, When he would kiss his mother's cheek And to her bosom press, The brightest angels, standing near, Would turn away to hide a tear, For they are motherless.
Where were ye, Birds, that bless His name, When wingless to the world He came, And _wordless_,--tho' Himself the Word That made the blossom and the bird?
He brought a Lily white, That bowed its fragrant head And blushed a rosy red Before her fairer light.
He brought a Rose; and lo, The crimson blossom saw Her beauty; and in awe Became as white as snow.
In all his glory, Solomon Was never so arrayed; Yet far more beautiful is one-- A MOTHER and a MAID-- Whose loveliness and lowliness God stooped from highest heaven to bless.
When Christ the Babe was born, Full many a little lamb, Upon the wintry hills forlorn, Was nestled near its dam;
And, waking or asleep, Upon His mother's breast, For love of her, each mother-sheep And baby-lamb He blessed.
"Where, woman, is thine offering-- The debt of law and love?" "My Babe a tender nestling is, And I the mother-dove."
You hid your little self, dear Lord, As other children do; But oh, how great was their reward Who sought three days for you!
A little Boy, of heavenly birth, But far from home to-day, Comes down to find His ball, the Earth, That Sin has cast away. O comrades, let us one and all Join in to get Him back His ball.
The Cross is tall, And I too small To reach His hand Or touch His feet; But on the sand His footprints I have found, And it is sweet To kiss the holy ground.
Once, measuring His height, He stood Beneath a cypress-tree, And, leaning back against the wood, Stretched wide His arms for me; Whereat a brooding mother-dove Fled fluttering from her nest above.
At evening He loved to walk Among the shadowy hills, and talk Of Bethlehem; But if perchance there passed us by The paschal lambs, He'd look at them In silence, long and tenderly; And when again He'd try to speak, I've seen the tears upon His cheek.
"Who art thou, son?" The little stranger smiled, "And who art _thou_?" Whereto she made reply, "Theresa I of Jesus am, my child." He--radiant--"Jesus of Theresa I."