Page:Poems Kimball.djvu/109

But neither round His infant brow
The crown of thorns (pre-woven now)
  Created eyes behold;
Nor in those infant arms that reach
In mute appeal, in lieu of speech,
  The cross those arms infold.

Yet crown of thorns and holy rood
(The tree of life, the mystic wood),
  His spotless sacrifice,
His anguish and His triumph, all
Are shadowed here in Bethlehem's stall
  Though hidden from our eyes.

Here, too, begins His wondrous reign;
Confessors, martyrs, lead His train
  Of humble souls and pure;
Not of this world His Kingdom is;
All others fade away, but His
  Forever shall endure.

His sword is Truth, His armor Love;
His Spirit as a tender Dove
  Broods o'er this troubled life;
He pities, pardons, strengthens, feeds;
He binds the breaking heart that bleeds;
  To peace transformeth strife.