A CHRISTMAS CAROL
The Christ-child lay on Mary's lap,
His hair was like a light.
(O weary, weary were the world,
But here is all aright.)
The Christ-child lay on Mary's breast
His hair was like a star.
(O stern and cunning are the kings,
But here the true hearts are.)
The Christ-child lay on Mary's heart,
- His hair was like a fire.
(O weary, weary is the world,
- But here the world's desire.)
The Christ-child stood on Mary's knee,
- His hair was like a crown,
And all the flowers looked up at Him,
- And all the stars looked down.
- G.K. Chesterton
Robert, Cyril. Mary Immaculate: God's Mother and Mine. New York: Marist Press, 1946.
The winds were scornful,
And gathering Angels
A burdened Mother
Did not mind
That only animals
For who in all the world
That God would search out
Sr. M. Chrysostom, O.S.B.
Robert, Cyril. Mary Immaculate: God's Mother and Mine. New York: Marist Press,
My Christmas Rosary I say
For you upon this blessed day;
Each prayer a precious Christmas Rose
To please the Baby Child, who knows
How many joys I wish for you;
May every one of them come true!
Robert. Cyril. Mary Immaculate: God's Mother and Mine. New York: Marist Press, 1946.
A CHRISTMAS CAROL
The shepherds went their hasty way,
And found the lowly stable-shed
Where the Virgin-Mother lay:
And now they checked their eager tread,
For to the Babe, that at her bosom clung,
A Mother's song the Virgin-Mother sung.
They told her how a glorious light,
Streaming from a heavenly throng.
Around them shone, suspending night!
While sweeter than a mother's song,
Blest Angels heralded the Savior's birth,
Glory to God on high! and Peace on Earth.
She listened to the tale divine,
And closer still the Babe she pressed:
And while she cried, the Babe is mine!
The milk rushed faster to her breast:
Joy rose within her, like a summer's morn;
Peace, Peace on Earth! the Prince of Peace is born.
Thou Mother of the Prince of Peace,
Poor, simple, and of low estate!
That strife should vanish, battle cease,
O why should this thy soul elate?
Sweet Music's loudest note, the Poet's story,-
Didst thou ne'er love to hear of fame and glory?
And is not War a youthful king,
A stately Hero clad in mail?
Beneath his footsteps laurels spring;
Him Earth's majestic monarchs hail
Their friends, their playmate! and his bold bright eye
Compels the maiden's love-confessing sigh.
Tell this in some more courtly scene,
To maids and youths in robes of state!
I am a woman poor and mean,
And wherefore is my soul elate.
War is a ruffian, all with guilt defiled,
That from the aged father's tears his child!
A murderous fiend, by fiends adored,
He kills the sire and starves the son;
The husband kills, and from her board
Steals all his widow's toil had won;
Plunders God's world of beauty; rends away
All safety from the night, all comfort from the day.
Then wisely is my soul elate,
That strife should vanish, battle cease:
I'm poor and of low estate,
The Mother of the Prince of Peace.
Joy rises in me, like a summer's morn:
Peace, Peace on Earth! The Prince of Peace is born!'
Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Thérèse, M. I Sing of a Maiden. New York: Macmillan Company, 1947.
TO MARY AT CHRISTMAS
No stranger pilgrims wear the shepherd's way
Than those who seek the stabled Child alone;
In many inns where Mary's Son would lay
No stranger keepers Bethlehem had known
Than those who choose not none but One. Deny
The Virgin-Mother? - better both were barred
From hearth and threshold lest half-welcome cry
More insult than such doors that hold their guard
On any knock............
Where Jesus is there must
His Mother be!
O Prince of Peace and Queen,
Whose love released our garden debt of dust,
Whose wills were manger laid for Crosses foreseen,
Such severing would flout all ordered plan
And mock the heart which flamed with whiter fire
Of human love, divinely fanned, than man
Had known could ever burn and not expire.
Before day-star elect, O heart most pure,
Brought low and pierced, denials more unite
What they would cleave, for scourge and Cross abjure
The Lamb of God and her alike in plight.
"I thirst;" and so athirst in kind was she,
His earthly dearest, lone and last to cede,
That Mary too became Love's legacy,
As well the giver given with the deed
So broadly writ in pain. Deny? ah, claim
In awe-struck breath this wondrous grace
Of kinship, children got in Adam's shame
And born anew to hail our Mother's place
In power above all angels, saints and seers!
O Care, whose fulness is unceasing prayers
John Gilland Brunini
For us, our days are momented with tears,
Our years are tithed with waywardness and snares,
Our exile versed in questioned ills and plaints,
And prodigal in pride our courage faints...
Yet over all our sweetest tribute rings-
We fly to covert of our Mother's wings.
Thérèse. M. I Sing to a Maiden. New York: Macmillan Company, 1947
Your voice speaks:
German original: Gertrude Von Le Fort
Little child out of Eternity, now will I sing to thy mother! The
song shall be fair as dawn-tinted snow.
Rejoice Mary Virgin, daughter of my earth, sister of my soul,
rejoice, O joy of my joy!
I am as one who wanders through the night, but you are a house
I am a thirsty cup, but you are God's open sea.
Rejoice Mary Virgin, blessed are those who call you blessed,
never more shall child of man lose hope.
I am one love for all, I shall never cease from saying: one of you
has been exalted by the Lord.
Rejoice Mary Virgin, wings of my earth, crown of my soul, rejoice
joy of my joy!
Blessed are those who call you blessed.
English translation: Margaret Chanler
Thérèse, M. I Sing of a Maiden. New York: Macmillan, 1947.
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