CHRISTMAS HYMN

O Christ, born on the holy day,

I have no gift to give my King;

No flowers grow by my weary way;

I have no birthday song to sing.

How can I sing Thy name and praise,

Who never saw Thy face divine;

Who walk in darkness all my days,

And see no Eastern stars a-shine?

Yet, when their Christmas gifts they bring,

How can I leave Thy praise unsung?

How stay from homage to the King,

And hold a silent, grudging tongue?

Lord, I found many a song to sing,

And many a humble hymn of praise

For Thy great Miracle of Spring,

The wonder of the waxing days.

When I beheld Thy days and years,

Did I not sing Thy pleasant earth?

The moons of love, the years of tears,

The mysteries of death and birth?

Have I not sung with all my soul

While soul and song were mine to yield,

Thy lightning crown, Thy cloud-control,

The dewy clover of Thy field?

Have I not loved Thy birds and beasts,

Thy streams and woods, Thy sun and shade;

Have I not made me holy feasts

Of all the beauty Thou hast made?

What though my tear-tired eyes, alas!

Won never grace Thy face to see?

I heard Thy footstep on the grass,

Thy voice in every wind-blown tree.

No music now I make or win,

Yet, Lord, remember I have been

The lover of Thy world, wherein

I found nought common or unclean.

Grown old and blind, I sing no more,

Thy saints in heaven sing sweet and strong,

Yet take the songs I made of yore

For echoes to Thy birthday song.