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Cold was the day, when in a garden bare, Walked the Child Jesus, wrapt in holy thought; His brow seemed clouded with a weight of care; Calmness and rest from worldly things he sought. Soon was his presence missed within his home; His mother gently marked his every way; Forth then she came to seek where he did roam. Full of sweet words his trouble to allay. Through chilling snow she toiled to reach his side, Forcing her way mid branches brown and sere, Hastening that she his sorrows might divide, Share all his woe, or calm his gloomy fear. Sweet was her face, as o'er his head she bent, Longing to melt his look of saddest grief. With lifted eyes, his ear to her he lent; Her kindly solace brought his soul relief. Then did he smile—a smile of love so deep, Winter himself grew warm beneath its glow; From drooping branches scented blossoms peep; Up springs the grass; the sealèd fountains flow. Summer and spring did with each other vie, Offering to Him the fragrance of their store; Chanting sweet notes, the birds around him fly, Wondering why earth had checkered so her floor. |