LORD, is it Thou disguised in Palmer's weed,
That coming in life's early morning frore,
Standest so humbly knocking at our door
Who know Thee not for whom Thou art indeed—
The Lord of Life—yet piteous of thy need,
Open to Thee, and offer of our store,
Which lo! as we partake with Thee, grows more,
Water to wine, and bread to fruitful seed?

Such miracle attends Thy passage, Love,—
Thy skirts flow out in blessing like the Nile,—
But should Thy longer presence once approve
Some House of Life, all that it held erewhile
Of rare, would to a lordlier music move,—
Yea, very dust take honour in Thy smile.