THE HOLY INNOCENTS
I
Our King is a lovely child!
Mary is feeding the ass;
The caravans pass—
Mary is feeding the ass:
And no little playmates stand
To comfort the King in the desert land.
II
But, see! Where the fair child shrinks
Under shadow of a sphinx,
And sayeth no words—
With a whirr as of travelling birds,
Round him settles burning, glad,
Shouting tongue of Bethlehem, many an angel-lad.
III
Martyrs these of Bethlehem;
God's reward hath come to them.
Fallen on sleep from bloody fray,
As the martyr Stephen, they
Woke in presence of their Father's face:
And the Father bade them come and play
With His Jesus in this lonely place.
IV
Come then, in a blood-red ring,
Rose—oh, rose—blood-red of wing,
And in infant chorus sing
How his lovely martyrdom
One day too will come!
