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 She that drew God's Son to be A butt, a jest on Calvary, And 'neath the leper's guise doth know The King in his incognito.

The world is grown too wise, and we Go our sad ways sensibly. O, would that our lean souls might win Some grace of thine, God's harlequin, Whose days were lavished like fool's gold Upon His pleasures manifold. "Would God," cried Francis, on his knees, "I had a forest of such trees!"

THE THRONE OF THE KING

The sun was setting, and its golden glow Deepened the shadows on the village street, And reverent touched the beauty of the head Of Him who sat, in thought, beside the well Of Nazareth. Two women came to fill Their earthen jars; and sent their burdens down To where the water lay; then drew them up. But still the Boy, unmoved, gazed steadily Upon the distant hills, that girded round Jerusalem, the City of the Soul.

His eyes were deep as some unfathomed sea, That tosses wreckage on its billowed crest; But hides its treasures ever in the caves,