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WONDROUS mother! since the dawn of time

Was ever love, was ever grief, like thine?

O highly favored in thy joy's deep flow,

And favored, even in this, thy bitterest woe!

Poor was that home in simple Nazareth

Where, fairly growing, like some silent flower,

Last of a kingly race, unknown and lowly,

O desert lily, passed thy childhood's hour.

The world knew not the tender, serious maiden,

Who through deep loving years so silent grew,