  Hail to thee, thou holy Babe, In the manger now so poor, Yet so rich Thou art, I ween, High within the highest door. Little Babe who art so great, Child so young who art so old, In the manger small His room Whom not heaven itself could hold. Motherless, with mother here, Fatherless, a tiny span, Ever God in heaven's height, First to-night becoming man. Father—not more old than thou? Mother—younger, can it be! Older, younger is the Son, Younger, older, she than He. Douglas Hyde |
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