| |
I LAUGH to see them pray | |
| And think God still is in the sky. | |
| The little Christ whose name they say | |
| Is dead. I saw him die. | |
| |
| They burned his house and killed his priest, | 5 |
| Just as the Bible saith. | |
| We had no milk for little Christ | |
| And so he starved to death. | |
| |
II There was a Virgin Mary made | |
| To sit in church, all whitely sweet, | 10 |
| And hear our prayers. She smiled and played | |
| All day with baby Jesus’ feet. | |
| |
| Each day, our faces clean like snow, | |
| Amid the candle-shine and myrrh | |
| We children, standing in a row, | 15 |
| With folded hands would sing to her. | |
| |
| “O Mary, let thy gentle son | |
| Come down with us today, | |
| And be the blessed Holy One | |
| In all our work and play. | 20 |
| |
| I wish that we had prayed to her | |
| To keep him safe instead. | |
| She did not know about the war. | |
| Now little Christ is dead. | |
| |
III The sun-waves floated past the sill | 25 |
| And buzzy, bumping flies. | |
| My Mother lay all pale and still, | |
| With eyes like Mary’s eyes. | |
| |
| I promised her I would be brave | |
| And help her, and I tried; | 30 |
| And all the things she asked I gave, | |
| And never cried. | |
| |
| But at the end all I could do | |
| Was, stop my ears and pray, | |
| And hide my face. I never knew | 35 |
| The Christ would come that way. | |
| |
IV My Mother held me close to her; | |
| I feel her one kiss yet. | |
| How sweet she was, alone and dear, | |
| I never can forget. | 40 |
| |
| Her face was just like Mary’s face, | |
| As if a light shone through. | |
| I took the Christ Child from that place | |
| And ran. She told me to. | |
| |
V There were long, dust-gray roads to run, | 45 |
| And sticks that hurt my feet, | |
| And dead fields lying in the sun, | |
| And nothing there to eat. | |
| |
| The Baby Jesus never cried, | |
| But with soft little lips and weak | 50 |
| Wee hands kept nuzzling at my side | |
| And tried to suck my cheek. | |
| |
VI We slept beneath a bending tree, | |
| The little Christ and I, | |
| And woke up in the light to see | 55 |
| The sun lift up the sky. | |
| |
| And all the birds that ever were | |
| Sang to the Christ Child then,— | |
| Sweet thrush and lark and woodpecker, | |
| Gold warbler and brown wren. | 60 |
| |
| There were no bells for mass | |
| Singing a little tune; | |
| White faces lying in the grass | |
| Were laughing at the moon! | |
| |
VII They made a little, lonely bed | 65 |
| Where it was cold and dim. | |
| The baby Christ was dead, quite dead. | |
| There was no milk for him. | |
| |
