“Son of the Morning. Child of the Dawn!”

Red robed, yellow robed, robed in gold

Charging forward, raising hands

To still the throng about him.

“Oh, Shining Star–” stands above and glitters in the light

“Hear me–follow me. Trust in me—all!”

He tosses gold-flecks coins to outstretched hands.

Then springs to chariot all flash and flare.

“Son of the Morning, Child of the dawn”

Trumpets flourish, follow and die after

In the waiting distance.

Then breezes turn the faces westward

Robed in white, tall and graven

Striding, walking through the parted crowd

He comes Heralding himself in a deep rich voice.

He stands among them, still above

Raised hand and says “Good Morning.

What have I to give you? It is yours.”

Then he turns and goes on from the west toward the dawn,

Treading on forgotten gold, Eastward to the place of white.

He climbs the marble stairs

And up half way they rush to meet him.

Slowly, One in whiter bright robes comes,

Takes him in His arms, “My Son.”