Came limping and sorrowful, all alone, the
little gray lamb of the weary heart,
Murmuring, "I must bide far away:
I am not worthy--my fleece is gray."

And the Christ Child looked upon humbled
pride, at kings bent low on the earthen floor,
But gazed beyond at the saddened heart of the
little gray lamb at the open door;
And he called it up to his manger low and laid
his hand on its wrinkled face,
While the kings drew golden robes aside to
give to the weary one a place.
And the fleece of the little gray lamb was blest:
For, lo! it was whiter than all the rest!

* * * * *

In many cathedrals grand and dim, whose windows
glimmer with pane and lens,
Mid the odor of incense raised in prayer, hallowed
about with last amens,
The infant Saviour is pictured fair, with
kneeling Magi wise and old,
But his baby-hand rests--not on the gifts, the
myrrh, the frankincense, the gold--
But on the head, with a heavenly light,
Of the little gray lamb that was changed to white.