  THE Christmas moon rides bravely in the skies, The young and untried year is at the gate. We tremble at his aspect grave with fate, At his inscrutable, unsmiling eyes, Subtle with hope and full of prophecies. Lord, he is all unknown, but Thou art true; As in the old year, guide us in the new. The clock has struck—with the last clanging knell Comes in the new year, goeth out the old; To-morrow is to-day, to have and hold; The future binds us with her mystic spell. For bliss? for bale? what man shall ask or tell? Forward we look with wistful, questioning eyes; Lord, who art wisdom’s fountain, make us wise. The old year’s love shall live on in the new. But love is weak and ignorant and blind, Led by each wandering fancy of the mind, Enticed by song of bird and scent of dew, Misleading still where fain it would be true. O Lord, whose love fails never night or day, Teach us to love in Thine own perfect way. That comes to end which now is just begun. To wax, to wane, it is the common fate, The new year must be old year; soon or late The hovering shadow wrappeth every one, And hides him from the day and from the sun. Darkness and light are Thine, O Lord, Most High; Make us content to live and glad to die. |
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