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THE CHILD like mustard-seed
Rolls out of the husk of death
Into the woman’s fertile, fathomless lap.

Look, it has taken root!
See how it flourisheth.
See how it rises with magical, rosy sap!

As for our faith, it was there
When we did not know, did not care;
It fell from our husk like a little, hasty seed.

Sing, it is all we need.
Sing, for the little weed
Will flourish its branches in heaven when we slumber beneath.