A MORNING SONG FOR CHRISTMAS DAY: FOR MUSIC

Wake! what unusual light doth greet
The early dusk of this our street?
It is the Lord! it is the Christ!
That hath the will of God sufficed;
That, ere the day is born anew,
Himself is born a child for you. Chor.

The harp, the viol, and the lute,
To strike a praise unto our God!
Bring here the reeds! Bring here the flute!
Wake summer from the winter's sod!
Oh, what a feast of feasts is given
To his poor servants, by the King of Heaven!

Where is the Lord?
Here is the Lord,
At thine own door. 'Tis he, the Word;
He, at whose face, the eternal speed
Of orb on orb was changed to song.
Shall he the sound of viols heed,
Whose ears have heard so high a throng?
Shall he regard the citherns strung,
To whom the morning stars have sung? Chor.

Then wake, my heart, and sweep the strings,
The seven in the Lyre of Life!
Instead of lutes, the spirit sings;
With praise its quiet house is rife!
Oh, what a feast of feasts is given
To his poor servants, by the King of Heaven!

Who is the Lord?
He is the Lord,
That Light of light, that Chief of all!
Who is the Lord?
He is the Lord,
An outcast lying in a stall;
For in the Inn no room is left,
While the unworthy feast instead:
He of all welcome is bereft,
And hath not where to lay his head.

What fitter place could I prepare;
What better cradle, say, is there
Than this my heart, if that were fair?
Thou hast divined! A nobler part,
In man, or angel, or of earth, or skies,
There is not, than a broken heart:
The which thy God may ne'er despise.

The Hyinn. Chor.

Lord, in my heart a little child,
Now that the snows beat far and wide,
While ever wails the tempest wild,
Good Lord, abide.

Nor go thou if the summer comes,
Nor if the summer days depart;
But chiefly make Thy home of homes,
Lord, in my heart.