On Belgic dunes the sun is gayly shining
And little children can forget — and play;
A jolly band with smiles and arms entwining
Are running through the sands and lose their way.
They stop their frolicking and rather weary
They chance upon a road where, looking round,
They see the perfect Son of gentle Mary
Resigned upon His cross though pierced and bound.
At His dear feet, in prayer, they closely snuggle
And chant the words of Him they all adore,
But “trespasses” reminding them, they struggle
To finish, hesitate, can say no more.
A step is heard, a presence felt that captures
The stammered words, and firmly all repeat
The Pater Noster to its end. What raptures!
Their hero King! they see and humbly greet.