This page needs to be proofread.
SWINGING THE CENSER,
Christmas Morning
i.
BROTHER WITHIN THE CHANCEL.
GATHER his robes about him,
Follow the priestly feet ;
Choke him with fragrant incense,
Nothing shall purge him sweet.
Mean to his inmost fibre,
Blushing not, soul nor cheek ;
He is the holy Father,
We are his servants meek.
Fitting his fingers neatly,
Joint upon flaccid joint;
Playing with hand and eyebrow,
He whom the saints anoint.
