BETHLEHEM
Soft and slow, soft and slow,
With angels' wings of fire and snow,
To rock Him gently to and fro,
Fire to stay the chill at night,
Snow to cool the noonday bright;
And overhead His star's alight.
Pale and sweet, pale and sweet,
Maid Mary keeps her vigil meet,
While Joseph waits with patient feet.
Mary's love for soft embrace,
Joseph's strength to guard the place,
Lo! from the East Kings ride apace.
Gold and myrrh, gold and myrrh,
Frankincense for harbinger,
Myrrh to make His sepulchre,
Roses white and roses red,
Thorns arrayed for His dear Head,
Hail! hail! Wise Men who seek His bed.
Joseph
Little One, Little One, Saviour and Child,
Father and Mother, my Husband and Son;
Born of the lily, the maid undefiled,
Babe of my Love, the Beatified One.
Little One, Little One, Master and LORD,
Kings of the Earth come, desiring Thy Face;
I, Thy poor servitor, lowly afford
All that my life holds, for all is Thy Grace.
Little One, Little One, GOD over all,
Earth is thy footstool, and Heav'n is Thy throne:
Joseph the carpenter, prostrate I fall;
Praise thee, adore Thee, and claim Thee mine own.
Maid Mary
Babe, dear Babe!
Mine own, mine own, my heart's delight,
The myrrh between my breasts at night,
My little Rose, my Lily white,
My Babe for whom the star's alight.
Babe, dear Babe!
Mine own, mine own, GOD'S only SON,
Foretold, foreseen, since earth begun;
Desire of nations, Promised One
When Eve was first by sin undone.
Babe, dear Babe!
Mine own, mine own, the whole world's Child!
Born of each heart that's undefiled,
Nursed at the breast of Mercy mild,
And in the arms of Love asiled.
Babe, dear Babe!
My crown of glory, sorrow's sword,
My Maker, King, Redeemer, Lord,
My Saviour and my great Reward;
My little Son, my Babe adored.
The Three Kings
Hail! Hail thou wondrous little King!
To Thy dear Feet
Our offerings meet
With bended knee we bring;
O mighty baby King,
Accept the offering.
First King
LORD, I stoop low
My head of snow,
Thus I, the great, hail Thee, the Least!
And swing the censer for the Priest,
The Priest with hands upraised to bless,
The Priest of this world's bitterness.
As I stoop low
My head of snow,
Bless me, O Priest, before I go.
Second King
Behold me, King!
A man of might,
Who rules dominions infinite;
Strong in the harvest of the years,
And one who counts no kings as peers,
O little King,
Behold my crown!
I lay it down,
And bow before Thy lowly bed
My all unworthy uncrowned head,
For I am naught and Thou art All.
And Thou shalt climb a throne set high,
Between sad earth and silent sky,
Thereon to agonize and die;
And at Thy Feet the world shall fall,
Stretch out Thy little Hands, O King,
Behold the world's imagining!
Third King
Out of the shadow of the night
I come, led by the starshine bright,
With broken heart to bring to Thee
The fruit of Thine Epiphany,
The gift my fellows send by me,
The myrrh to bed Thine agony.
I set it here beneath Thy Feet,
In token of Death's great defeat;
And hail Thee Conqueror in the strife;
And hail Thee Lord of Light and Life.
All hail! All hail the Virgin's Son!
All hail! Thou little helpless One!
All hail! Thou King upon the Tree!
All hail! The Babe on Mary's knee,
The centre of all mystery!
The leaves fall softly: a wind of sighs
Whispers the world's infirmities,
Whispers the tale of the waning years,
While slow mists gather in shrouding tears
On All Souls' Day; and the bells are slow
In steeple and tower. Sad folk go
Away from the township, past the mill,
And mount the slope of a grassy hill
Carved into terraces broad and steep,
To the inn where wearied travellers sleep,
Where the sleepers lie in ordered rows,
And no man stirs in his long repose.
They wend their way past the haunts of life,
Father and daughter, grandmother, wife,
To deck with candle and deathless cross,
The house which holds their dearest loss,
I, who stand on the crest of the hill,
Watch how beneath me, busied still,
The sad folk wreathe each grave with flowers.
Awhile the veil of the twilight hours
Falls softly, softly, over the hill,
Shadows the cross:- creeps on until
Swiftly upon us is flung the dark,
Then, as if lit by a sudden spark,
Each grave is vivid with points of light,
Earth is as Heaven's mirror to-night;
The air is still as a spirit's breath,
The lights burn bright in the realm of Death.
Then silent the mourners mourning go,
Wending their way to the church below;
While the bells toll out to bid them speed,
With eager Pater and prayerful bead,
The souls of the dead, whose bodies still
Lie in the churchyard under the hill;
While they wait and wonder in Paradise,
And gaze on the dawning mysteries,
Praying for us in our hours of need;
For us, who with Pater and prayerful bead
Have bidden those waiting spirits speed.
Soft and slow, soft and slow,
With angels' wings of fire and snow,
To rock Him gently to and fro,
Fire to stay the chill at night,
Snow to cool the noonday bright;
And overhead His star's alight.
Pale and sweet, pale and sweet,
Maid Mary keeps her vigil meet,
While Joseph waits with patient feet.
Mary's love for soft embrace,
Joseph's strength to guard the place,
Lo! from the East Kings ride apace.
Gold and myrrh, gold and myrrh,
Frankincense for harbinger,
Myrrh to make His sepulchre,
Roses white and roses red,
Thorns arrayed for His dear Head,
Hail! hail! Wise Men who seek His bed.
Joseph
Little One, Little One, Saviour and Child,
Father and Mother, my Husband and Son;
Born of the lily, the maid undefiled,
Babe of my Love, the Beatified One.
Little One, Little One, Master and LORD,
Kings of the Earth come, desiring Thy Face;
I, Thy poor servitor, lowly afford
All that my life holds, for all is Thy Grace.
Little One, Little One, GOD over all,
Earth is thy footstool, and Heav'n is Thy throne:
Joseph the carpenter, prostrate I fall;
Praise thee, adore Thee, and claim Thee mine own.
Maid Mary
Babe, dear Babe!
Mine own, mine own, my heart's delight,
The myrrh between my breasts at night,
My little Rose, my Lily white,
My Babe for whom the star's alight.
Babe, dear Babe!
Mine own, mine own, GOD'S only SON,
Foretold, foreseen, since earth begun;
Desire of nations, Promised One
When Eve was first by sin undone.
Babe, dear Babe!
Mine own, mine own, the whole world's Child!
Born of each heart that's undefiled,
Nursed at the breast of Mercy mild,
And in the arms of Love asiled.
Babe, dear Babe!
My crown of glory, sorrow's sword,
My Maker, King, Redeemer, Lord,
My Saviour and my great Reward;
My little Son, my Babe adored.
The Three Kings
Hail! Hail thou wondrous little King!
To Thy dear Feet
Our offerings meet
With bended knee we bring;
O mighty baby King,
Accept the offering.
First King
LORD, I stoop low
My head of snow,
Thus I, the great, hail Thee, the Least!
And swing the censer for the Priest,
The Priest with hands upraised to bless,
The Priest of this world's bitterness.
As I stoop low
My head of snow,
Bless me, O Priest, before I go.
Second King
Behold me, King!
A man of might,
Who rules dominions infinite;
Strong in the harvest of the years,
And one who counts no kings as peers,
O little King,
Behold my crown!
I lay it down,
And bow before Thy lowly bed
My all unworthy uncrowned head,
For I am naught and Thou art All.
And Thou shalt climb a throne set high,
Between sad earth and silent sky,
Thereon to agonize and die;
And at Thy Feet the world shall fall,
Stretch out Thy little Hands, O King,
Behold the world's imagining!
Third King
Out of the shadow of the night
I come, led by the starshine bright,
With broken heart to bring to Thee
The fruit of Thine Epiphany,
The gift my fellows send by me,
The myrrh to bed Thine agony.
I set it here beneath Thy Feet,
In token of Death's great defeat;
And hail Thee Conqueror in the strife;
And hail Thee Lord of Light and Life.
All hail! All hail the Virgin's Son!
All hail! Thou little helpless One!
All hail! Thou King upon the Tree!
All hail! The Babe on Mary's knee,
The centre of all mystery!
The leaves fall softly: a wind of sighs
Whispers the world's infirmities,
Whispers the tale of the waning years,
While slow mists gather in shrouding tears
On All Souls' Day; and the bells are slow
In steeple and tower. Sad folk go
Away from the township, past the mill,
And mount the slope of a grassy hill
Carved into terraces broad and steep,
To the inn where wearied travellers sleep,
Where the sleepers lie in ordered rows,
And no man stirs in his long repose.
They wend their way past the haunts of life,
Father and daughter, grandmother, wife,
To deck with candle and deathless cross,
The house which holds their dearest loss,
I, who stand on the crest of the hill,
Watch how beneath me, busied still,
The sad folk wreathe each grave with flowers.
Awhile the veil of the twilight hours
Falls softly, softly, over the hill,
Shadows the cross:- creeps on until
Swiftly upon us is flung the dark,
Then, as if lit by a sudden spark,
Each grave is vivid with points of light,
Earth is as Heaven's mirror to-night;
The air is still as a spirit's breath,
The lights burn bright in the realm of Death.
Then silent the mourners mourning go,
Wending their way to the church below;
While the bells toll out to bid them speed,
With eager Pater and prayerful bead,
The souls of the dead, whose bodies still
Lie in the churchyard under the hill;
While they wait and wonder in Paradise,
And gaze on the dawning mysteries,
Praying for us in our hours of need;
For us, who with Pater and prayerful bead
Have bidden those waiting spirits speed.