  On Belgic dunes the sun is gayly shining And little children can forget—and play; A jolly band with smiles and arms entwining Are running through the sands and lose their way. They stop their frolicking and rather weary They chance upon a road where, looking round, They see the perfect Son of gentle Mary Resigned upon His cross though pierced and bound. At His dear feet, in prayer, they closely snuggle And chant the words of Him they all adore, But “trespasses” reminding them, they struggle To finish, hesitate, can say no more. A step is heard, a presence felt that captures The stammered words, and firmly all repeat The Pater Noster to its end. What raptures! Their hero King! they see and humbly greet. |
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