“In summer days, like you and me
He played about the door,
Or gathered, when the father toiled,
The shavings from the floor.
Sometimes He lay upon the grass
The same as you and I,
And saw the hawks above Him pass
Like specks against the sky;
Or clinging to the gate, He watched
The stranger passing by.
And when the sun at break of day
Crept in upon His hair
I think it must have left a ray
Of unseen glory there --
A kiss of love on that little brow,
For the thorns that it must wear.”
--A. B. Paine
