  We came on Christmas Day Within the church to pray And lit by candle-ray I Mary saw And Joseph and the mild Ox and that little Child With open arms who smiled Amid the straw. Behind a press of folk We knelt and no one spoke, Our Lady in her cloak Made not less noise, With folded fingers, than Each silent kneeling man, And sweet small girls who can Be still, and boys. But for that Babe divine, His cot compared to mine, There in the candle-shine Was poor and hard. Yet did He never cry, Laid on such stems of rye As we see blowing by The stable yard. And I who lie and wail, Pent by the polished rail Of my white cot while pale The night-light gleams, Who spurn my sheets and stain The patchwork counterpane With tears, then sink again Into my dreams, Must mind me of His lot Whose mother poor had got No whitely pillowed cot To ease His head, But was at pains to shake The straws up for His sake And did a manger make Into His bed. Sweet Jesus let me wear My swaddling-bands of care Smiling, and still forbear To be so nice; That thus I may behold Thy True Face, being old, Where straws are turned to gold In Paradise. |
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