The royal hill was calm and still

And the silent angels slept,
Till all alone to the golden throne

A wee, wee baby crept.
Ah ! its little feet were pink and sweet,

Its steps were all unsteady ;
Yet its little voice made heaven rejoice :
' Lo ! the golden wheat is ready !'

' The wheat is ready,' rang around
The steps of the golden throne ;

The angels all their scythes unbound
In a world that was all their own ;

And the beautiful baby crept along
With lips like a golden pod ;

The harvest was brief, yet it slept on a sheaf-
On the glorious gifts of God.

Look for a dollar and find it, please,

Down in the dusty street ;
Then look in the billowed and splendid seas

Where the sweet wind wipes the wheat.
There 's where the angels have come to-night :

There 's where the baby sings ;
And all 's afire with a spark of light

From a big Archangel's wings.

So the story is told by a baby wee
With a mouth like a golden pod
A sheaf is a splendid angel's knee
It sleeps in the lap of God.

East and west, and north and south,

Angel ! whither away ?
Will the beautiful autumn fill the mouth

Of the winter's hungered day ?
Yes, out of the field the promise wings

That the wee, wee babe is right :
The yellow harvest sobs and sings

As the white days take their flight.

So the baby lives without mishap,
And its lips like a ripened pod,

Are pursed in the rich and the yellow lap
Of the golden gift of God.