"Thy gentleness hath made me great."

Now winter past, the white-thorn bower
Breaks forth and buds down all the glen;
Now spreads the leaf and grows the flower:
So grows the life of God, in men.

Oh, my child-God, most gentle King,
To me Thy waxing glory show;
Wake in my heart as wakes the spring,
Grow as the leaf and lily grow.

I was a child, when Thou a child
Didst make Thyself again to me;
And holy, harmless, undefiled,
Play'd at Thy mother Mary's knee.

Thou gav'st Thy pure example so,
The copy in my childish breast
Was a child's copy. I did know
God, made in childhood manifest.

Now I am grown, and Thou art grown
The God-man, strong to love, to will,
Who was alone, yet not alone,
Held in His Father's presence still.

Now do I know Thee for my cure,
My peace, the Absolver for me set;
Thy goings pass through deeps obscure,
But Thou with me art gentle yet.

Long-suffering Lord, to man reveal'd
As One that e'en the child doth wait,
Thy full salvation is my shield,
Thy gentleness hath made me great.