This is how the child leads:
A shepherd charged with feeding the grieved
takes every stone hate hurls at him;
a king and his page trudge through charity’s snow;
boxes are filled with surplus things;
the lion lies down with the lamb.
We who eat from Plenty’s horn,
flush with leftovers, paper scraps,
beneath the season’s plenty-green tree:
look where the child goes;
watch Him grow and mark His steps –
Stephen, Wenceslas, and all
who’ve eyes to see, come see.
The Consolations of Writing 