Of all his tenderness, his love, Page after page she read; How he made whole the sick, the maimed, And how he raised the dead. And how he loved the children small, Even of low degree; And how he blessed them o’er and o’er, And set them on his knee. When this the little child had heard He spoke in accents low, “Would that I had been one with them To have been blessed so!” “Thou shalt be blessed, gentle one!” Said Marien kind and mild, “Christ, the Great Comforter, doth bless Thee, even now, poor child!” So conversed they of holy things Until the closing day Then Marien and the little child Rose up to go their way. As to the town they came, they passed An ancient church, and “here Let us go in!” the pale child said, “For the organ pealeth over head, And that sweet strain of holy sound Like a heavenly vesture wraps me round, And my heavy heart doth cheer.” So Marien and the little child Into the church they stole; And many voices rich and soft Rose upward from the organ loft, And the majestic instrument Pealed to an anthem that was sent To soothe a troubled soul. Anon the voices died away, The pealing organ ceased, And through the church’s ancient door Passed chorister and priest. And Marien and the little child Went forward hand in hand Adown the chancel aisle, and then At once they made a stand. Over the altar hung a piece With holy influence fraught, A work divine of wondrous skill By some old painter wrought. The gracious Saviour breathing love, Was there like life expressed, And round his knees the children small Were thronging to be blessed. Down dropped the child upon his knees, And weeping, tenderly Cried “bless me also, poor and weak, Or let me go to thee!” Anon his little head dropped low, And his white lips ’gan to say, “Oh kiss me gentle one, for now Even I am called away-- The blessed mother’s voice I hear, It calleth me away!” So died the child;--and Marien laid His meek arms on his breast, With the clasped book between his hands:-- Thus God had given him rest! And Marien, weeping holy tears, Sate down beside the dead, And slept that night within the church, As in a kingly bed. Scarce from the church had Marien passed, When came the father there, As was his wont, though fierce and bad, To say a morning prayer! Not seven paces had he gone, When, heart-struck, he surveyed Before his feet, that little child In his dead beauty laid. At once as by a lightning stroke His softened soul was torn With a deep sense of all the wrong That little child had borne.