The Nativity Of Christ

Behold the father is his daughter's son,
   The bird that built the nest is hatch'd therein,
The old of years an hour hath not outrun,
   Eternal life to live doth now begin,
The word is dumb, the mirth of heaven doth weep,
Might feeble is, and force doth faintly creep.

O dying souls! behold your living spring!
   O dazzled eyes! behold your sun of grace!
Dull ears attend what word this word doth bring!
   Up, heavy hearts, with joy your joy embrace!
From death, from dark, from deafness, from despairs,
This life, this light, this word, this joy repairs.

Gift better than Himself God doth not know,
   Gift better than his God no man can see;
This gift doth here the giver given bestow,
   Gift to this gift let each receiver be:
God is my gift, Himself He freely gave me,
God's gift am I, and none but God shall have me.

Man alter'd was by sin from man to beast;
   Beast's food is hay, hay is all mortal flesh;
Now God is flesh, and lives in manger press'd,
   As hay the brutest sinner to refresh:
Oh happy field wherein this fodder grew,
Whose taste doth us from beasts to men renew!

—St. Robert Southwell

The Light Of Bethlehem

'Tis Christmas night! the snow
   A flock unnumbered lies;
The old Judean stars aglow
   Keep watch within the skies.

An icy stillness holds
   The pulses of the night;
A deeper mystery enfolds
   The wondering Hosts of Light.

Till lo, with reverence pale
   That dims each diadem,
The lordliest, earthward bending, hail
   The Light of Bethlehem!

—John Bannister Tabb

Mary Was Watching

Mary was watching tenderly
Her little Son;
Softly the mother sang to sleep
Her darling One.
Sleep, lovely Child, be now at rest,
Thou son of Light,
Sleep, pretty fledgling in thy nest,
All through the night!

Mary has spread your manger bed;
Sleep little Dove,
God's creatures all draw near to praise;
Crown of my love.
Sleep, little Pearl, Creator Lord,
Our homage take,
Bees bring you honey from their hoard,
When you awake.

—Mary Cochrane Vojdcek

From THE REED

Mary, Mother of God,
we are the poor soil
and the dry dust;
we are hard with a cold frost.

Be warmth to the world;
be the thaw,
warm on the cold frost;
be the thaw that melts,
that the tender shoot of Christ,
piercing the hard heart,
flower to a spring in us.

Be hands that are rocking the world
to a kind rhythm of love;
that the incoherence of war
and the chaos of our unrest
be soothed to a lullaby;
and the round and sorrowful world,
in your hands,
the cradle of God.

—Eileen Duggan

Ave Maria Bells

   At dawn, the joyful choir of bells,
   In consecrated citadels
Flings on the sweet and drowsy air
A brief, melodious call to prayer;
   For Mary, Virgin meek and lowly,
   Conceived of the Spirit Holy,
As the Lord's angel did declare.

   At noon, above the fretful street,
   Our souls are lifted to repeat
The prayer, with low and wistful voice:
'According to thy word and choice,
   Though sorrowful and heavy laden,
   So be it done to thy Handmaiden':
Then all the sacred bells rejoice.

   At eve with roses in the west,
   The daylight's withering bequest,
Ring, prayerful bells, while blossom bright
The stars, the lilies of the night:
   Of all the songs the years have sung us,
   'The Word made Flesh has dwelt among us,'
Is still our ever-new delight.

—Charles Warren Stoddard