BIBLE STORIES
THE room was low and small and kind; And in its cupboard old, The shells were set out to my mind; The cups I loved with rims of gold.
Then, with that good gift which she had, My mother showed at will, David, the ruddy Syrian lad, With his few sheep upon a hill;
A shop down a rude country street, The chips strewn on the floor, And faintly keen across the heat; The simple kinsfolk at the door;
Mary amid the homely din, As slim as violet; The little Jesus just within, About His father's business set.
My mother rose, and then I knew As she stood smiling there, Her gown was of that gentle blue Which she had made the Virgin wear.
How far the very chairs were grown! The gilt rose on each back, Into a Syrian rose was blown, And not our humble gold and black.