He who had all else Heaven and earth

Could give Him, till His human Birth

He had no mother though He had

His Father's love, secure and glad;

Yet He made mothers for delight

Of the small babes in the cold night.

He saw how well His hand had made

Her bosom for the baby's head,

How tender are her arms to fold

The shivering thing in a soft hold,

And how her voice goes hush–a–loo, Rocking the cradle to and fro.

He has had all these for content.

For three–and–thirty years has leant

On a fond heart that fails Him not.

He is in the fiery chariot:

The clouds have ta'en Him and the wind.

But His sweet Mother's left behind!

What's wrong with Heaven? His Father's there,

The brooding Dove's aloft in air,

Heaven's as it was, serene, unflawed.

For the first time the Heart of God,

Lately made Man, hath little ease, For loneliness, for loneliness.