（For Richardson Little Wright）

    There was a gentle hostler （And blessed be his name！） He opened up the stable The night Our Lady came. Our Lady and Saint Joseph, He gave them food and bed, And Jesus Christ has given him A glory round his head.

    So let the gate swing open However poor the yard, Lest weary people visit you And find their passage barred； Unlatch the door at midnight And let your lantern's glow Shine out to guide the traveler's feet To you across the snow.

    There was a courteous hostler （He is in Heaven to-night） He held Our Lady's bridle And helped her to alight； He spread clean straw before her Whereon she might lie down, And Jesus Christ has given him An everlasting crown.

    Unlock the door this evening And let your gate swing wide, Let all who ask for shelter Come speedily inside. What if your yard be narrow？ What if your house be small？ There is a Guest is coming Will glorify it all.

    There was a joyous hostler Who knelt on Christmas morn Beside the radiant manger Wherein his Lord was born. His heart was full of laughter, His soul was full of bliss When Jesus, on His Mother's lap, Gave him His hand to kiss.

    Unbar your heart this evening And keep no stranger out, Take from your soul's great portal The barrier of doubt. To humble folk and weary Give hearty welcoming, Your breast shall be to-morrow The cradle of a King.

    The Robe of Christ（For Cecil Chesterton）At the foot of the Cross on Calvary Three soldiers sat and diced, And one of them was the Devil And he won the Robe of Christ.

    When the Devil comes in his proper form To the chamber where I dwell, I know him and make the Sign of the Cross Which drives him back to Hell.

    And when he comes like a friendly man And puts his hand in mine, The fervour in his voice is not From love or joy or wine.

    And when he comes like a woman, With lovely, smiling eyes, Black dreams float over his golden head Like a swarm of carrion flies.

    Now many a million tortured souls In his red halls there be： Why does he spend his subtle craft In hunting after me？

    Kings, queens and crested warriors Whose memory rings through time, These are his prey, and what to him Is this poor man of rhyme, That he, with such laborious skill, Should change from role to role, Should daily act so many a part To get my little soul？

    Oh, he can be the forest, And he can be the sun, Or a buttercup, or an hour of rest When the weary day is done.

    I saw him through a thousand veils, And has not this sufficed？ Now, must I look on the Devil robed In the radiant Robe of Christ？

    He comes, and his face is sad and mild, With thorns his head is crowned； There are great bleeding wounds in his feet, And in each hand a wound.

    How can I tell, who am a fool, If this be Christ or no？ Those bleeding hands outstretched to me！ Those eyes that love me so！

    I see the Robe —— I look —— I hope —— I fear —— but there is one Who will direct my troubled mind； Christ's Mother knows her Son.

    O Mother of Good Counsel, lend Intelligence to me！ Encompass me with wisdom, Thou Tower of Ivory！

    "This is the Man of Lies," she says, "Disguised with fearful art： He has the wounded hands and feet, But not the wounded heart."

    Beside the Cross on Calvary She watched them as they diced. She saw the Devil join the game And win the Robe of Christ.