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 Just the blind man's cry, and the lame man's pace, And the leper's pitiful call; On these, over infinite fields of space, Look down, for You know them all.

LIKE ONE I KNOW

Little Christ was good, and lay Sleeping, smiling in the hay; Never made the cows round eyes Open wider at His cries; Never when the night was dim, Startled guardian Seraphim, Who above Him in the beams Kept their watch round His white dreams; Let the rustling brown mice creep Undisturbed about His sleep. Yet if it had not been so— Had He been like one I know, Fought with little fumbling hands, Kicked inside His swaddling bands, Puckered wilful crimsoning face— Mary Mother, full of grace, At that little naughty thing, Still had been a-worshipping.