MANGER SONG

Young Mary the Mother
Gazed fondly at Him,
And softly fingered
The manger's rim.

St. Joseph sat musing
On a bundle of hay,
The shepherds played sweetly
A bagpipe lay.

The angels stood smiling
In heaven's joy
And humbly adoring
The infant Christ-boy.

The ox and the donkey
Forgot the fresh straw
And knelt down in wonder
At what they saw.

The walls were shining
Like molten gold,
The winds sang gaily
Around the fold.

And gleaming silver
Strewed every star,
And sang a star greeting
From heaven afar.

Frederick M. Lynk, S.V.D.
Robert, Cyril. Our Lady's Praise in Poetry. New York: Marist Press, 1944.


MADONNA AND CHILD

The angels had returned to heaven,
The shepherds to their quiet fold,
The magi to their eastern homeland,
The manger still was hard and cold.

And yet, the Infant Son of God
Could not remain in it for long:
A cruel despot's ruthless threat
Drove Him to foreign land and tongue.

The Holy Three set out in haste
To cross the burning desert sand,
But nightly made a brief sojourn,
They knew their lives were in God's hand.

Would not the white stars rise to dance,
When Mary raised her infant's face
Up to her breast beneath the trees,
That e'en the barren desert grace?

Would not the sailing clouds begrudge
Her the sweet load upon her arm?
And gladly clothe Him in the white
Of fleecy wool to keep Him warm?

Would not the thrushes sing with her
When she intoned a cradle song?
Would not the flowers bow their heads
To hear that mother fair and young?

O would that I could be a star,
A cloud, a thrush, a fragrant flower,
To shine and sail, to sing and pray,
Around the sacred desert bower.

Frederick M. Lynk, S.V.D.
Robert, Cyril. Our Lady's Praise in Poetry. New York: Marist Press, 1944.


CRADLE SONG OF MARY'S BELOVED

Sleep, O my little one, quietly sleep,
Angels shall guard thee slumbering deep.
White wings about thee
Enfolding that flame,
Holy, Immortal
Ineffable Name.

Sleep, O my little one, quietly sleep,
Heaven's high hosts around thee shall creep.
All love and glory,
Beauty and grace --
With kiss of a mother--
rest on thy face.

Sleep, my beloved, my little one sleep;
No crying be heard: O stir not nor weep.
A bright Star is shining
Above thy dear head,

And to this poor shelter
The great Kings are led.

Sleep then, my Kingly one, gently and still.
See how thine angels watch on each hill.
Here is thy mother
Close, dearest heart:
I shall be with thee
When shepherds depart.

Sleep, O my little Lord, darling one, sleep.

Patrick K. O'Horan
Robert, Cyril. Our Lady's Praise in Poetry. New York: Marist Press, 1944.


MARY SPEAKS

Blow gently, wind, do not disturb the hay,
Sing to my Son a zephyr roundelay.
Come softly, softly as the dark night, sheep,
For here your gentle Shepherd lies asleep.

Blow gently, wind,
Come softly, sheep,
My Son, my God,
Here lies asleep.
Stand closer, child, stand closer to your Lord,
For this is He for whom the Jews implored;
For this is He whom all the ages seek,
A gentle King, this Babe who lies asleep.
Stand closer, child,
Come softly, sheep,
My Son, my God,
Here lies asleep.
Regina Kelly
Robert, Cyril. Our Lady's Praise in Poetry. New York: Marist Press, 1944.


LET US GO OVER TO BETHLEHEM

What thoughts, O tender Mother, filled
Your heart that Christmas night?
Of that high moment when you heard
From God's own acolyte.

"The Lord is with thee. Blessed, thou..."
That you might souls unbind
That all of heaven looked to you
And all of humankind;

Did you relive exultant joys,
And days of journeying
That led to your aged cousin's home
Through valley's bright with Spring,

Or gazing on your new-born Son
See Cana; Calvary--
Beyond the lantern's dimming rays
A million altars see

Whose light would spell eternal Love,
With solace, strength for men;
And songs that echoed Bethlehem
Bring holy peace

If we draw near the hallowed cave
As shepherds did that morn,
You'll whisper all that filled your heart
That night our Christ was born.

Mary Catherine Brennan
Robert, Cyril. Mary Immaculate: God's Mother and Mine. New York: Marist Press, 1946.


NATIVITY SONG

The beautiful Mother is bending
Low where her baby lies
Helpless and frail, for her tending:
But she knows the glorious eyes.

The Mother smiles and rejoices
While the Baby laughs in the hay,
She listens to heavenly voices:
"This Child shall be King some day."

O dear little Child in the manger,
Let me make merry with Thee,
O King, in my hour of danger,
Wilt Thou be strong for me?

Bl. Jacopone da Todi
Robert, Cyril. Mary Immaculate: God's Mother and Mine. New York: Marist Press, 1946.


Return to Christmas Poetry

Return to Marian Poetry Index

Return to The Mary Page

This page, maintained by The Marian Library/International Marian Research Institute, Dayton, Ohio 45469-1390, and created by J.C.Tierney , was last modified Tuesday, 04/05/2011 15:08:32 EDT by Ramya Jairam . Please send any comments to jroten1@udayton.edu.