Classic Poem

Who would robe Him in the purple sheen of royalty to-day,
If He came to us as once He came in olden Bethlehem?
Who but the watching shepherds would behold the matchless ray,
If it shone in grandeur's loneliness, as once it shone to them?

But we praise Him with the chorists in the high cathedral stall,
As they pour the grand Te Deums on the crisping wintry air;
And we tell the poor and ragged that the Christ Child comes to all,
Though we jostle them in contrast at the holy altar's stair.

Pity, Lord, the weights that hinder all the homage we can pay,
The richness of our wrappings and the carded wool of ease!
Lift the cankering dross of worldliness, Oh! Christ Child! while we pray,
That our souls may hear the harmonies attuned to heavenly keys!

Let us feel Thy sacred Presence on the day that gave Thee birth,
As side by side, low kneeling, humble rich and humble poor;
Give to us the crumbs of comfort with the lowly of the earth,
Leave the precious sign of promise on the lintel of our door.

We are children still, Oh! Jesus! all despite our wrongs and tears,
The thorny pressings of the flesh, the ashen clouds that fall;
As children still, Oh! Father! lend Thy greeting to the years,
That we may know in very truth, the Christ Child comes to all!