O little son, asleep within my arms,
I think I hear the carillons of peace
Re-echoing to still the war-alarms
And bring, at last, the chrism of release.
O darling boy, this prodigal, the earth,
Long in travail, will joy in giving birth
To peaceful giants who on living sod
Will build a New Acropolis to God.
O little man-child, see the rifted night!
Come, chosen builder, firmly grasp the rod.
Awake, my son, behold the growing light!
