Sweet is the time for joyous folk
— Of gifts and minstrelsy;
Yet I, O lowly-hearted One,
— Crave but Thy company.
On lonesome road, beset with dread,
— My questing lies afar.
I have no light, save in the east
— The gleaming of Thy star.

In cloistered aisles they keep to-day
— Thy feast, O living Lord!
With pomp of banner, pride of song,
— And stately-sounding word.
Mute stand the kings of power and place,
— While priests of holy mind
Dispense Thy blessed heritage
— Of peace to all mankind.

I know a spot where budless twigs
— Are bare above the snow,
And where sweet winter-loving birds
— Flit softly to and fro;
There with the sun for altar-fire,
— The earth for kneeling-place,
The gentle air for Chorister,
— Will I adore Thy face.

Loud, underneath the great blue sky,
— My heart shall paean sing,
The gold and myrrh of meekest love
— Mine only offering.
Bliss of Thy birth shall quicken me,
— And for Thy pain and dole
Tears are but vain, so I will keep
— The silence of the soul.