With what a flood of wondrous thoughts
Each Christian breast must swell
When, wandering back through ages past,
With simple faith they dwell
On quiet Nazareth-s sacred sod,
Where the Child Saviour-s footsteps trod.

Awe-struck we picture to ourselves
That brow serene and fair,
That gentle face, the long rich curls
Of wavy golden hair,
And those deep wondrous, star-like eyes,
Holy and calm as midnight skies.

We see Him in the work-shop shed
With Joseph, wise and good,
Obedient to His guardian-s word,
Docile and meek of mood;
The Mighty Lord of Heaven and Earth
Toiling like one of lowly birth.

Or else, with His young Mother fair-
That sinless, spotless one,
Who watched with fond and reverent care,
Her high and glorious Son,
Knowing a matron-s joy and pride,
And yet a Virgin pure beside.

All marvelled at the strange, shy grace
Of Mary-s gentle Son;
Young mothers envied her the Boy
Who love from all hearts won;
And, gazing on that face so mild,
Prayed low to Heaven for such a child.

Though with the boys of Nazareth
He never joined in mirth,
Yet young and old felt strangely drawn
Towards His modest worth;
E-en though that quiet, wondrous Child,
Had never laughed nor even smiled.

For even then prophetic rose
Before His spirit-s gaze
The cruel Cross, the griefs reserved
For manhood-s coming days,
And, worse than all, the countless host
That, spite His pangs, might yet be lost.

Silent and calm, He held His way
From morn till evening still;
His thoughts intent on working out
His Mighty Father-s will;
While Heaven bent in ecstasy,
O-er the Boy-God of Galilee.