Classic Poem

Is He alone at birth
Due garb denied,
When all the looms of earth
His power hath plied?

Must He go houseless, too?
Birds are more blest;
'Neath all the nightly dew
For Him no nest?

Beg of the wayside corn
His daily bread,
The running stream not scorn
With stooping head?

Till at the last His tree
Should yield Him all,
Bed, drink, and garment free,
The Blood, the gall.

For us as if to save
He is denied, —
Unto the last He gave,
Lo, hands and side.