The Book of American Negro Poetry/Christmas Eve in France
CHRISTMAS EVE IN FRANCE
Oh little Christ, why do you sigh As you look down to-night On breathless France, on bleeding France, And all her dreadful plight? What bows your childish head so low? What turns your cheek so white?
Oh little Christ, why do you moan, What is it that you see In mourning France, in martyred France, And her great agony? Does she recall your own dark day, Your own Gethsemane?
Oh little Christ, why do you weep, Why flow your tears so sore For pleading France, for praying France, A suppliant at God's door? "God sweetened not my cup," you say, "Shall He for France do more?"
Oh little Christ, what can this mean, Why must this horror be For fainting France, for faithful France, And her sweet chivalry? "I bled to free all men," you say "France bleeds to keep men free."
Oh little, lovely Christ—you smile! What guerdon is in store For gallant France, for glorious France, And all her valiant corps? "Behold I live, and France, like me, Shall live for evermore."