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I like that old, kind legend Not found in Holy Writ, And wish that John or Matthew Had made Bible out of it. But though it is not Gospel, There is no law to hold The heart from growing better That hears the story told:— How the little Jewish children Upon a summer day, Went down across the meadows With the Child Christ to play. And in the gold-green valley, Where low the reed-grass lay, They made them mock mud-sparrows Out of the meadow clay. So, when these all were fashioned, And ranged in rows about, "Now," said the little Jesus, "We'll let the birds fly out." Then all the happy children Did call, and coax, and cry— Each to his own mud-sparrow: "Fly, as I bid you! Fly!" But earthen were the sparrows, And earth they did remain, Though loud the Jewish children Cried out, and cried again. Except the one bird only The little Lord Christ made; The earth that owned Him Master, —His earth heard and obeyed. Softly He leaned and whispered: "Fly up to Heaven! Fly!" And swift, His little sparrow Went soaring to the sky, And silent, all the children Stood, awestruck, looking on, Till, deep into the heavens, The bird of earth had gone. I like to think, for playmate We have the Lord Christ still, And that still above our weakness He works His mighty will, That all our little playthings Of earthen hopes and joys Shall be, by His commandment, Changed into heavenly toys. Our souls are like the sparrows Imprisoned in the clay, Bless Him who came to give them wings Upon a Christmas Day! |