The Nativity

Peace? and to all the world? sure,

And He the Prince of Peace, hath none.

He travels to be born, and

Is born to travel more again.

Poor Galilee! thou canst not

The place for His nativity.

His restless mother's called away,

And not delivered till she pay.     A tax? 'tis so still! we can

The church thrive in her misery;

And like her Head at Bethlem,

When she, oppressed with troubles, lies.

Rise? should all fall, we cannot

In more extremities than He.

Great Type of passions! come what will,

Thy grief exceeds all copies still.

Thou cam'st from heaven to earth, that

Might go from earth to heaven with Thee.

And though Thou foundest no welcome here,

Thou didst provide us mansions there.

A stable was Thy court, and

Men turned to beasts, beasts would be men.

They were Thy courtiers, others none;

And their poor manger was Thy throne.

No swaddling silks Thy limbs did fold,

Though Thou couldst turn Thy rays to gold.

No rockers waited on Thy birth,

No cradles stirred, nor songs of mirth;

But her chaste lap and sacred

Which lodged Thee first did give Thee rest.     But stay: what light is that doth stream,

And drop here in a gilded beam?

It is Thy star runs page, and

Thy tributary Eastern kings.

Lord! grant some light to us, that

May with them find the way to Thee.

Behold what mists eclipse the day:

How dark it is! shed down one

To guide us out of this sad night,

And say once more, "Let there be light."