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24
A CRADLED CHILD
The presence of a 'holy thing,'
Madonna-wise, her heart discerns,
And like a fragrant censer burns,
O'ershadowed by an angel's wing.
Her brooding motherhood is strong;
A trembling joy her bosom stirs,
Her thoughts are white-robed worshippers,
'Magnificat' is all her song.
'Mid angels whispering 'all-hails'
The waking moment she awaits,
The opening of two pearly gates,
The lifting of two silken veils.
