Ah tiny limbs! ’twas hard to know
  How best to strike the fatal blow: 
  Too wide the sword-blades are to smite
  Those throats so silken-fragile, slight.

  O horrid sight! the tender bones
  Are dashed against the jagged stones: 
  Sightless and mangled there they lie,
  Poor babes! untimely doomed to die.

  Perchance the still deep river laves
  Their bodies thrust into the waves: 
  The current with their sighing sighs,
  Sobs with their latest, broken cries.

  Ye flowers of martyrdom, all hail! 
  Of rising morn pure blossoms frail! 
  By Jesu’s foe were ye downcast,
  Like budding roses by the blast.

  Lambs of the flock too early slain,
  Ye first fruits of Christ’s bitter pain! 
  Close to His very altar, gay
  With palms and crowns, ye now do play.

  Of what avail is deed so vile? 
  Doth Herod gain by murderous guile? 
  Of all to death so foully done
  Escapes triumphant Christ alone.

  Amidst that tide of infant gore
  Alone He wins the sheltering shore: 
  The virgin’s Child survives the stroke,
  When every mother’s heart was broke.

  Thus Moses ’scaped the mad decree
  Of evil Pharaoh and set free
  The flock of God, prefiguring so
  Christ spared from fate’s malignant blow.

  Vain too the king’s hostility
  Who framed the pitiless decree
  That Israel’s mothers should not rear
  To manhood’s strength their offspring dear.

  Quickened by love, a woman’s mind
  Found means to thwart that law unkind,
  And, falsely true, the child concealed
  Destined to be his people’s Shield.

  On him it was that God did place
  The august priesthood’s holy grace,
  The law on stony tablets writ
  Did to his trembling hands commit.

  And may we not with prophet’s eye
  In such a hero Christ descry? 
  The proud Egyptian’s might he broke
  And freed his kinsmen from the yoke.

  So we by Error’s might hemmed round
  Were by our Captain’s strength unbound: 
  His foe He wounded in the fight
  And saved us from Death’s horrid night.

  Cheering by sign of flame their feet,
  Moses renewed with waters sweet
  His folk, albeit purified
  From stain, what time they crossed the tide.

  And he, remote on peaceful height,
  Amalek’s banded hosts did smite: 
  He prayed with arms stretched out above,
  Foreshadowing the Cross of Love.

  Yet truer Jesus surely he,
  Who after many a victory
  And labours long the tribes’ renown
  With promised heritage did crown;

  Who when the waters rose on high
  And now the Jordan’s bed was dry,
  Set up twelve stones of memory,
  Types of apostles yet to be.

  Rightly the Wise Men said, I ween,
  That they Judaea’s King had seen,
  Since noble deeds of other days
  Prophetic chant the Saviour’s praise.