And the child grew, and waxed strong in spirit, and was in the deserts until the day of his showing unto Israel.
Child, amid the honeyed flowers Passing life's bright morning hours-- Playing in the silver rills, Where they bathe Judea's hills-- Looking, with an earnest eye, At the wild bird flitting by-- Infant of the joyous heart, Canst thou tell me who thou art?
Thou, whose little hand in play Hurls the clustered grapes away; While thou lov'st to watch the bee, Or to win a lamb to thee, And to see the fleecy flock Resting by the shadowy rock,-- Know'st thou, tender, beauteous boy, What 's thine errand--whence thy joy?
'T was thy name that Gabriel spoke, By the altar, while the smoke From thy father's incense rolled, When thy being was foretold! Thou art come, the promised one, As the dayspring to the sun, Soon to usher in new light Through the realms of death and night!
Heavenly innocence is now Marked upon thy peaceful brow: God's own Spirit filleth thee, Sainted babe; for thou art he, Who before the Lamb shall go, Crying, that the world may know He hath life to give the dead, In the blood he comes to shed!
Though, from nature wild and rude, Come thy raiment, rest, and food, Nightly o'er thy desert sleep, Angels shall their vigils keep; Through the wilderness by day, They will guard and lead the way; Till to Israel thou appear, Showing heaven's mild kingdom near.
High and glorious, then, the part For thine eye, and hand, and heart! When thy feet, on Jordan's side, Feel the waters, as they glide, Thou the Son of God shalt see, Come to be baptized of thee-- Hear him named, and see the Dove Resting on him from above!
O solitude, holy and calm! From tumult and crowds breaking free, I fly, sick and sad, for the balm I find given only by thee.
Too oft from thy peace I depart, Kind guardian, friend of my soul,-- And then bring an earth-wounded heart For thee to bind up and make whole.
My spirit, now worn and oppressed, Her wings in thy bosom hath furled, To sink, as a bird in its nest, Away from a cold, faithless world!
Alarmed at the shade and the chill, That o'er me its visions have cast, I here would lie lowly and still, Till sorrow's dark night hours are past.
And then, from the dust may I rise, To mount, as the lark from her sod; And sing, as the morn of my skies Appears in the smile of my God.