Classic Poem

Within the hollow of His hand
He holds the ocean waves:
The thunders roll at His command,
The lightnings are His slaves.
He bade the sun be bright on high,
The great all-seeing sun,
And marked his path along the sky,
The course that he must run.
Before Him nations flee like ghosts
With them in whom they trust,
And mighty kings with all their hosts
Pass silent into dust.
And He that bade the sun arise
And shine from East to West,
A little, helpless child He lies
On mortal mother's breast.
He neither knows nor understands:
Mid kine and swine and sheep
He stretches out His little hands,
And cries Himself to sleep.