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Our God is Light — our God is Love ! 
 
 In Him we are, and live, and move. 
 
 Life, Love, and Light, 
 
 Broke over all our world on Christmas night 
 
 In a lowly cell 
 
 Some peasants dwell. 
 
 But their guest is the Angel Gabriel; 
 
 And a rocky cave, 
 
 Which the meek beasts gave. 
 
 Houses and shelters One Mighty to Save. 
 
Poor is the spot 
 
 In Judah 's lot, 
 
 But David's city its King hath got 
 
 And the simple swains 
 
 On the hilly plains 
 
 Of Bethlehem, listen to heavenly strains. 
 
 Rude is the bed 
 
 Where the cattle have fed, 
 
 And the pillow of hay for the Royal Head. 
 
 While Mary's hands 
 
 Have fashioned the bands 
 
 To swathe His form Who the world commands. 
 
 Meek is the Maid, 
 
 Sometime afraid, 
 
 Yet in her bosom her Lord is laid. 
 
 Lowliest she, 
 
 In humility, 
 
 Blessed forever her name shall be. 
 
Behold Him! this Child 
 
 So gentle and mild, 
 
 Clothed in humanity undefiled; 
 
 An infant of days! 
 
 Yet lost as we gaze 
 
 In wonder, we worship, adore Him, and praise. 
 
 A little space — 
 Stand by, with reverent face — 
 The glory of the Lord fills all the place; 
 Now, in that scene of meekest majesty 
 Behold one form of gentlest gifts and grace- 
 She cometh, see — 
 The mother of my Lord! Ah, whence is this to me ? 
 
 Thou, whom hiera.rch addressing 
 
 Called thee blessed, whence is thy blessing ? 
 
 What the words thy bliss expressing ? 
 
Among the saints of Paradise she dw ells, 
 Who shared the mystery of that birth divine. 
 
 It may be many a holy tale she tells 
 Of angel visitant and heavenly sign, 
 
 And things to them and us on earth were sealed. 
 
 Are in those blessed shades by converse sweet revealed. 
 
 And near— if kindred thought stir realms above, 
 
 If friend choose friend in all that loving throng- 
 Nearest are they who know a mother's love; 
 
 With her they muse, or, as they join in song, 
 Those safe and happy prisons softly dim, 
 Ring with the full glad strains of her own holy hymn. 
 
 But we, who here remain. 
 
 Who share thy pain. 
 
 Sweet saint, for thou hast known 
 
 Great sorrows for thine own; 
 
 Who share in measure 
 
 Thy heights of raptured pleasure; 
 
 A mother's bliss, a mother's woe, 
 
 For who has this, that too must know — 
 
 We, too, v/ould learn of thee, 
 
 And sharers of thy grace and wisdom be. 
 
We see the blessed Maiden now 
 With lilies oa her breast and brow, 
 Nor deem the soft, seraphic smile 
 But fancy or the poet's wile; 
 We can but think her fair and sweet 
 Who was for such high honor meet. 
 
 O, Wonderful, Mysterious Hour! 
 
 Of that supreme, o'ershadowing Power! 
 
 Still sealed from men's and angels' thought 
 
 The secret then in silence wrought — 
 
 We only know that fallen men 
 
 Were raised and new created then. 
 
 Perhaps the maid in holy calm 
 Devoutly sang prophetic psalm; 
 Perhaps her simple daily prayer 
 Was rising on the hallowed air; 
 What time the Angel's " Ave," near, 
 At once awoke and soothed her fear. 
 
 But perfectly to know God's will 
 
 Was all her thought and care; and still 
 
 A gentle peace, a holy rest 
 
Will fill the timid, troubled breast 
 Of her who cries, with faith restored, 
 ' Behold the handmaid of the Lord! " 
 
 Now, Mary, Mother, on thine arm 
 Thy baby lies, and thou from harm 
 Dost think His little form to keep, 
 Dost lull Him to His quiet sleep. 
 Thou knowest every little art, 
 All tender pulses stir thy heart. 
 
 So like all other mothers, thou; 
 Thy babe like other babes — yet how 
 Unlike, for this is free from sin. 
 As fair without, so pure within, 
 No naughty passion e'er shall trace 
 Its marks upon that infant face. 
 
 No germ of evil thought is there, 
 No sinful lisp shall give thee care. 
 
In sweet obedience to grow 
 Is His, — and thine His love to know; 
 Conforming to thy soft behest — 
 Oh! Mary, Mother, thou art blest. 
 
 Yet many a mother, too, may dare 
 To hope in kind that bliss to share. 
 For God's unchanging word is given 
 To send the Holy Ghost from heaven, 
 To meet her at the sacred tryst 
 And make her baby like the Christ. 
 
 And sweet indeed it is to know — 
 Though stormy gusts of passion blow, 
 Though Satan and the world beguile. 
 And fleshly lusts will still defile. 
 Though sin the little soul must touch— 
 His kingdom is made up of such. 
 
 That Holy Child! —who can but dream 
 At times of all those things that seem 
 So briefly told in Holy Writ? 
 With chosen comrade did he sit 
 To learn at Jewish Rabbi's feet 
 The lore of Jewish children meet? 
 
Or join to play, with childish grace, 
 
 The children in the market-place? 
 
 Perfect, yet perfectly a child, 
 
 We are not by our dreams beguiled; 
 
 To think He shared the thoughts and glee 
 
 Of innocence and infancy. 
 
 Yet many a hint in word and mien 
 The thoughtful mother must have seen, 
 And wondrous things she held apart 
 And kept and pondered in her heart; 
 Her Child by angel hosts adored 
 She must have known to be her Lord. 
 
 She must have seen the glory shine 
 Upon that human face divine; 
 A mother oft will think to see 
 An earnest, tender gravity 
 Within her baby's smile and eyes, 
 Till in an ecstacy she cries: 
 
 Where hast thou been? What hast thou seen? 
 My pretty one, what doth it mean? " 
 
That look so clear, so calm, so cool, 
 Like sudden depth of mountain pool; 
 We thought to fathom ere we knew 
 How far below the mosses grew. 
 
 We turn — the prophet by the Lord 
 Hath spoken of a piercing sword — 
 A sword! — a cross! Ah! woe and pain 
 For Him;— for her the torturing strain 
 Of tenderest love and sympathy, 
 Which to the human soul may be. 
 
 And ever since, in every land 
 
 The weeping Rachels throng and stand, 
 
 And pierce the heavens through and through. 
 
 If but to catch one faintest view. 
 
 It is not this that layeth low, 
 
 But ah! this sword, it cutteth so! 
 
 Lift up your hearts— we lift them up— 
 The while we taste the bitter cup, 
 
The while we mourn and miss our own, 
 To Mary's child upon the throne — 
 The rainbow round about appears, 
 And smiles are mingled with our tears. 
 
 The heart hath its own bitterness — 
 Its secret grief doth not confess — 
 Yet, doth its own peculiar joy, 
 Its soft beatitude employ 
 To Mary in the world of bliss, 
 A solemn, sacred joy is this. 
 
 The while she joins the ransomed throng 
 Who swell the new, the glorious song; 
 Adores the love which claims for brother 
 Who do His will, for sister, mother, 
 The while each high and holy theme 
 Doth thought engage and lips beseem. 
 
 She feels with rapture, deep and awed, 
 What none can know but her and God — 
 
Who thus her low estate prefers — 
 The Only Son of God is hers; 
 Through her He was to us as well. 
 To her, indeed, Immanuel! 
 
 We sometimes draw the perfumed breath 
 Of flowrets all too sweet for death, 
 Or see some lovely passing view 
 We fain would keep forever new, 
 Or hear some softly floating strain 
 Of notes we'd hold to hear more plain- 
 Like these the love that's born with life, 
 That e'er distraught by earthly strife, 
 Encircles all its early years, 
 And lives upon the smiles and tears 
 Of childhood's brief and fleeting span; 
 For, if the child became a man — 
 
 Parental love hath varied range. 
 Then comes the ripened interchange 
 
Of thought with thought, as friend with friend, 
 Whose joys with memories sweetly blend, 
 Yet are those tender dews exhaled 
 Which in the early morn prevailed. 
 
 Save only when her darling dies 
 The mother smiles amid her sighs, 
 And often in her keenest pain 
 At thoughts she cannot well explain. 
 Her brooding joy she loseth never, 
 She hath her little child forever. 
 
 Only, dear Lord, unto the end 
 Our sealed treasure we commend 
 To thee, who, if we wake or sleep, 
 Our loved and thine will safely keep; 
 And when Thou dost the gift restore. 
 Our trials past, our sorrows o'er, 
 With opened box of odors sweet, 
 We'll fall to worship at Thy feet. 
 
At Jesus' feet — come roving thought, 
 This magnet centre thou iiast sought, 
 Nor tail through selt-distraciing care 
 To point thy trembling index there; 
 Let pains and joys and hopes ot thine. 
 My soul, but lead thee to this shrine. 
 
 At Jesus' feet! Yes! there we bow 
 With Shepherds at the manger now; 
 At Jesus' feet we'll worship when, 
 With all the ransomed race of men, 
 W ith all the hosts of heaven, we cry 
 All glory be to God on High! 
 
LIBRflRY OF CONGRESS 
 
 016 165 333