Golden slippers walking,
who knows where they'll go?
You'll never hear their coming,
whisper-soft like snow.
Under ferns and over trees,
changing with the sky,
treading on the sun-bright hills
and where earth's secrets lie.
I wear my golden slippers,
but the world will never see.
And do they walk in death or grace
is still unknown to me.
She kneels alone on the dusty street
after the crowd has gone
disheveled and broken who once was so proud,
her beauty in rags at her feet.
Around her the stones lie where they were dropped.
She trembles: a moment ago they meant death,
now a new thing she has not yet learned.
And still, the Man,
meek before her, His hand on the earth, intending she does not know what.
Yet stronger than men, and now she prepares
for a judgment much worse than before.
"My Lord," she pleads, and His eyes meet hers,
beauty for ashes is born.
"Daughter"- He says- the stones lie at her feet-
"Daughter"- my life is redeemed!
Golden slippers walking,
who knows where they'll go?
You'll never hear their coming,
whisper-soft like snow.
Under ferns and over trees,
changing with the sky,
treading on the sun-bright hills
and where earth's secrets lie.
I wear my golden slippers,
but the world will never see.
And do they walk in death or grace
is still unknown to me.