I was a master-weaver
To weave my grief and care,
And day and night I fashioned
A heavy robe to wear.
I trailed it on the highway
Dust-grey, with weary pride,
I set upon my forehead
A wreath of thorns beside.
The sun on high in Heaven
Looked down and loud laughed he:
"What little dwarf goes yonder
In robes of majesty?"
