Poems (McDonald)/Christmas

by Mary Noel McDonald

For works with similar titles, see Christmas.

CHRISTMAS.

"This is time, when most divine to hear,
The voice of Adoration rouses me,
As with a cherub's trump; and high upborne,
Yea, mingling with the choir, I seem to view
The vision of the heavenly multitude,
Who hymned the song of Peace o'er Bethlehem's fields."
Coleridge.

A star hangs bright o'er Bethlehem's vale—
Angelic voices wake the morn;
And shepherds hear the wond'rous tale,
Jesus, the promised child, is born.
The harps of heaven on earth are strung:
Good will to men, by seraphs sung.

They seek the babe—no regal state—
 No princely pomp are Hithe while;
On Hi no bright-robed courtiers wait,
 But humble peasants watch His smile:
The magi kneel, and shepherds bend,
To Him whom angels did attend.

He has resigned a crown of light—
 Laid all his glorious vestments by—
And shrouding in this world of night
 The splendors of the Deity,
Hath come to succor, save, and bless,
His creatures in their wretchedness.

Saviour, again we hail the day,
 When brightly rose thy natal star;
And join the angel's heaven-taught lay,
 Which in the azure fields afar—
The music of celestial spheres,
Rang on the shepherd's listening ears.

And lo, from Nature's hand we bear
 An offering for thy holy shrine;
With evergreen, and garlands fair,
 High arch and lofty pillar twine:
And joyfully our pæans raise,
Redeemer, Saviour, in Thy praise.

And though no bright, peculiar gem,
 Is hung upon our midnight sky—
Like that which shone o'er Bethlehem,
 What time the heavenly hosts were nigh—
Thy Word our polar star shall be,
Guiding us on, to heaven and Thee.