On the Just and the Unjust

OUTCAST, a horror to his kind,  
 At night he to the forest fled.  
There, the birch-bark made fire for him,  
 The brown fern made a bed.  
 
The river murmured lullaby,  
The moisty mosses breathed of balm,  
The clean stars carried light to him,  
 Unterrified and calm.  
 
Aye, as they would have served a saint  
Freely all served the guilty guest.  
They only saw their Father’s son,  
 And brought their brother rest.