A CHILD BEFORE THE CRIB
We came on Christmas DayWithin the church to prayAnd lit by candle-rayI Mary sawAnd Joseph and the mildOx and that little ChildWith open arms who smiledAmid the straw.Behind a press of folkWe knelt and no one spoke,Our Lady in her cloakMade not less noise,With folded fingers, thanEach silent kneeling man,And sweet small girls who canBe still, and boys.But for that Babe divine,His cot compared to mine,There in the candle-shineWas poor and hard.Yet did He never cry,Laid on such stems of ryeAs we see blowing byThe stable yard.And I who lie and wail,Pent by the polished railOf my white cot while paleThe night-light gleams,Who spurn my sheets and stainThe patchwork counterpaneWith tears, then sink againInto my dreams,Must mind me of His lotWhose mother poor had gotNo whitely pillowed cotTo ease His head,But was at pains to shakeThe straws up for His sakeAnd did a manger makeInto His bed.Sweet Jesus let me wearMy swaddling-bands of careSmiling, and still forbearTo be so nice;That thus I may beholdThy True Face, being old,Where straws are turned to goldIn Paradise.
We came on Christmas DayWithin the church to prayAnd lit by candle-rayI Mary sawAnd Joseph and the mildOx and that little ChildWith open arms who smiledAmid the straw.Behind a press of folkWe knelt and no one spoke,Our Lady in her cloakMade not less noise,With folded fingers, thanEach silent kneeling man,And sweet small girls who canBe still, and boys.But for that Babe divine,His cot compared to mine,There in the candle-shineWas poor and hard.Yet did He never cry,Laid on such stems of ryeAs we see blowing byThe stable yard.And I who lie and wail,Pent by the polished railOf my white cot while paleThe night-light gleams,Who spurn my sheets and stainThe patchwork counterpaneWith tears, then sink againInto my dreams,Must mind me of His lotWhose mother poor had gotNo whitely pillowed cotTo ease His head,But was at pains to shakeThe straws up for His sakeAnd did a manger makeInto His bed.Sweet Jesus let me wearMy swaddling-bands of careSmiling, and still forbearTo be so nice;That thus I may beholdThy True Face, being old,Where straws are turned to goldIn Paradise.
We came on Christmas DayWithin the church to prayAnd lit by candle-rayI Mary sawAnd Joseph and the mildOx and that little ChildWith open arms who smiledAmid the straw.
Behind a press of folkWe knelt and no one spoke,Our Lady in her cloakMade not less noise,With folded fingers, thanEach silent kneeling man,And sweet small girls who canBe still, and boys.
But for that Babe divine,His cot compared to mine,There in the candle-shineWas poor and hard.Yet did He never cry,Laid on such stems of ryeAs we see blowing byThe stable yard.
And I who lie and wail,Pent by the polished railOf my white cot while paleThe night-light gleams,Who spurn my sheets and stainThe patchwork counterpaneWith tears, then sink againInto my dreams,
Must mind me of His lotWhose mother poor had gotNo whitely pillowed cotTo ease His head,But was at pains to shakeThe straws up for His sakeAnd did a manger makeInto His bed.
Sweet Jesus let me wearMy swaddling-bands of careSmiling, and still forbearTo be so nice;That thus I may beholdThy True Face, being old,Where straws are turned to goldIn Paradise.