Carol

Vines branching stilly
Shade the open door
In the house of Sion's lily
Cleanly and poor.
O, brighter than wild laurel

The Babe bounds in her hand!
The King, who for apparel
Hath but a swaddling band,
Who sees her heavenlier smiling than
Stars in his command.

Soon mystic changes
Part Him from her breast:
Yet there awhile He ranges
Gardens of rest,
Yea, she the first to ponder

Our ransom and recall,
Awhile may rock Him under
Her young curls' fall,
Against that only tender
Love loyal heart of all!

What shall inure Him
Unto the deadly dream
When the tetrarch shall abjure Him,
The thief blaspheme?
And Scribe and Soldier jostle

About the shameful Tree,
When even the Apostle
Demands to touch and see?
But she hath kiss'd her Flower
Where the wounds are to be.