Part IV

Who art thou apparition marvelous?
The raiment of thy soul 's a regal cloak,
Thy body though is clad in threadbare rags.
Thou and thy dear ones miss their daily food
And if perchance a piece of soft, black bread
To bring home to thy table bare of cloth
Thou didst succeed, it marked a holiday.
Those whom thou lovest best thou canst support,
But eager art for all the world to toil.
To enter heaven on high is given to thee,
But barred before thee is the rich man's door.
Who with the Lord on High hast had converse
Rebuffed wert, spokest thou to some great man
Who with contempt looks on thy shabby form.
Some people say, that an Apostle he,
Some say he is a miserable wretch.
Who art t'hou? Knowest them who gave thee birth?
Are they, thy parents, proud to hear thy name
Or causeth it their face to burn with shame?
Tell us, where wert thou born? On velvet couch,
Or in a manger, on a heap of straw?
Shall I the story of his life now tell?
I will; but if I were to paint the same
I would describe it as a brook, which sprang
From unknown rock where croaking ravens dwell.
At every inch it flows o'er rock and stone,
Its murmur is the groan of constant pain.