O little cripple, with the lovely eyes,
What have we done to thee?—
For all our wisdom, putting out thy gleam,
Crying, ‘Thou seest not, it is a dream!’
Against thy cry, ‘I see.’
O little cripple with the lovely eyes,
What have we now to show?
With vext perpetual ways past finding out,
Teaching thee well the hundred things of doubt,
Who saidest once, ‘I know.’
O little cripple with the lovely eyes,
That music of the Sphere
We only sought to bind for thee secure
Some day, if it were true, for thee too sure
Rejoicing with, ‘I hear!’
O little cripple with the lovely eyes,
Flower of the broken stalk,
Have pity on our need, for it is sore,—
Of thee, thee only,—thee to go before;
Rise up, rise up, and walk!