Till twelve years’ age, how Christ His childhood spent
All earthly pens unworthy were to write;
Such acts to mortal eyes He did present,
Whose worth not men but angels must recite:
No nature’s blots, no childish faults defiled,
Where grace was guide, and God did play the child.
In springing locks lay crouchèd hoary wit,
In semblant young, a grave and ancient port;
In lowly looks high majesty did sit,
In tender tongue sound sense of sagest sort:
Nature imparted all that she could teach,
And God supplied where nature could not reach.
His mirth of modest mien a mirror was;
His sadness temper’d with a mild aspect;
His eye to try each action was a glass,
Whose looks did good approve and bad correct;
His nature’s gifts, His grace, His word and deed,
Well show’d that all did from a God proceed.