God lay dimmed in slumber, And Jesus’ warm hair was pillowed on His Father’s breast; Seven disciples like seven points of a star Were rayed about the sleeping Majesties, And Judas was brighter than the rest, Because his spirit had a fiercer sin to burn. His ruddy hair was rimmed with dew, And what he was to me he is to you. There was no sound But the lyric murmur of a Mary, singing Low upon the ground, Where a brook ran upon a secret errand Like a silver hound Slipping beneath the unbound hair of trees; Mary was singing to the least of these, Some Children. All listened, For the breath of her caressed the silence With curves of melody; And hence the very corn awoke to hear, And to inhale the healing psalmody. So because the grass, the daisies, stirred Pleasantly, and light wings whirred As birds arose from nests, And quests of dew and honey went upon, The Children, one by one, moved about, And some would run up the hill, And back again; another seemed to pout, But changed and blew a glad shrill whistle out That pleased the sailing stars. Then Mary ceased her song, And silence fell like shadow on them all. Now amongst the ones who slept Judas raised his head; Sleep never touched his eyes with cool forgetfulness, Instead his soul was fed with sin That never flickered out within. He yawned and bent his knees, And the tongue of a silver bell Shivered above the sleeping Majesties Within the ring of seven, Because there were but six When Judas vaulted the fence-rail Out of the fields of Heaven. And now you could hear Jesus breathe, And God murmur peace upon the wakeful corn. “God!” A spire of frail sound rose from a boyish will, “See God, He’s walking down the hill, See, Mary!” And Mary looked up And saw Judas coming toward them, The sweet hand of a Child in the cup of either hand. “Shall I tell them the truth, Judas, That you are far from God,” said she, “Or will you burn them with your sin, You who are no kin to such as these, And drive them back to me, Crying bitterly?” A smile struggled with his twisted face, But could not give it grace, And the two Children, wary Of the lurid tumult in his breast, Wrested their twined fingers from the gnarled hold of him, And their eyes dim with tears, Ran back to Mary. Judas, the silent shadow of a man, His will as heavy as a fallen tree in a wood, Stood upon the hill, And watched the Children as they ran, Saw them nestle into Mary’s arms, Seeking in the cloudy charms Of her loosened hair, The peace they knew was there. Words crowded in his throat, And he sat upon the hillside With his face between his knees.