Part 6 (1/2)

A CHRISTMAS CAROL

Just a little baby lying in a manger, G.o.d of G.o.ds and Light of Lights, the mighty King of Kings, Hark! the choiring angels chant their glad evangels, All the air is pulsing with the music of their wings.

Just a little baby on Mary's breast that bore Him, Helpless feet, and clinging hands, and lips that knew no word, And the darkness ringing with the angels' singing, Sounding through the solemn night, ”All glory to the Lord.”

Just a little baby wrapped in swaddling clothing-- All the earth forever thrills rejoicing in that birth, Through the centuries flying still hears those angels crying, ”Glory be to G.o.d on high, and peace, goodwill to earth.”

_DE PROFUNDIS_

Lord, from this prison-house that we have built, This dark abode of pain and misery, Failure and guilt, We stretch our hands, we stretch our hands to Thee, Lord, set us free.

O Lord, Thou knowest all--Thou knowest well The groping hands, the eyes that would not see, The feet that fell; Yet are we fain--are fain to come to Thee, Lord, set us free.

Bitter the chains that we have borne so long, The chains of sin we wove so heedlessly; Lo, Thou art strong, Out of the deeps we cry--we cry to Thee, Lord, set us free.

THE CRY OF THE d.a.m.nED

Have you no pity for us?--You, who stand Within that Heaven that we may never win, Who know the golden streets of that fair land Our weary feet are fain to be within.

Have you no ruth for us, who must abide In the great horror of the night outside?

We, too, once knew of laughter and delight, Who now must walk these weary roads of pain; Our hearts were pure as yours, our faces bright, In that glad life we may not know again; We might have gained your Heaven too--even we Who dwell with madness and with memory.

Within the pleasant pastures where your feet Stray, comes there never thought of our distress?

Do our wails never mar your music sweet?

Our parched throats change your draught to bitterness?

Your chance was ours--we lost it; yes, we know Ours was the fault--but, is it easier so?

Yet was it ours?--The dazzled eyes and blind, The wills that knew, but could not hold the good, The groping feet, that failed the path to find, The wild desires that filled the tainted blood?

Have you no ruth, who those bright barriers crossed, For us, who saw them open--and are lost?

OUR LADY OF REMEMBRANCE

She stoops to us from her dim recess With weary and wistful eyes; She has grown so tired of the censer's swing, Of the white-robed choir and the songs they sing, Of the priest's pale hand, upraised to bless, And the feast and the sacrifice.

They bow to her as the Mother blest Of the great and awful G.o.d; But her heart holds dearest His early years, The childish laughter, the childish tears, Ere His feet had the road of sorrows pressed, Or the way to the cross had trod.

Her thoughts go back to the days of yore-- Away from the garish light, And the organ's droning melody, To the starry sh.o.r.es of Galilee, To the vines that shaded her cottage door, And the hush of the Eastern night.

So she bends to us from her dim recess With weary and wistful eyes, And turns away from the tapers' light To dream of the cool and the hush of night, From the priest's pale hand, upraised to bless, To the starry Eastern skies.

MAID MARY