Christmas. Various

Чтение книги онлайн.

       O holy Child of Bethlehem!

       Descend to us, we pray;

       Cast out our sin, and enter in,

       Be born in us to-day.

       We hear the Christmas angels

       The great glad tidings tell;

       Oh, come to us, abide with us,

       Our Lord Emmanuel!

      THE GLAD EVANGEL

      KATE DOUGLAS WIGGIN

      When the Child of Nazareth was born, the sun, according to the Bosnian legend, "leaped in the heavens, and the stars around it danced. A peace came over mountain and forest. Even the rotten stump stood straight and healthy on the green hill-side. The grass was beflowered with open blossoms, incense sweet as myrrh pervaded upland and forest, birds sang on the mountain top, and all gave thanks to the great God."

      It is naught but an old folk-tale, but it has truth hidden at its heart, for a strange, subtle force, a spirit of genial good-will, a new-born kindness, seem to animate child and man alike when the world pays its tribute to the "heaven-sent youngling," as the poet Drummond calls the infant Christ.

      When the Three Wise Men rode from the East into the West on that "first, best Christmas night," they bore on their saddle-bows three caskets filled with gold and frankincense and myrrh, to be laid at the feet of the manger-cradled babe of Bethlehem. Beginning with this old, old journey, the spirit of giving crept into the world's heart. As the Magi came bearing gifts, so do we also; gifts that relieve want, gifts that are sweet and fragrant with friendship, gifts that breathe love, gifts that mean service, gifts inspired still by the star that shone over the City of David nearly two thousand years ago.

      Then hang the green coronet of the Christmas-tree with glittering baubles and jewels of flame; heap offerings on its emerald branches; bring the Yule log to the firing; deck the house with holly and mistletoe,

      "And all the bells on earth shall ring

       On Christmas day in the morning."

      THE SHEPHERDS

      WILLIAM DRUMMOND, OF HAWTHORNDEN

      O than the fairest day, thrice fairer night!

       Night to blest days in which a sun doth rise

       Of which that golden eye which clears the skies

       Is but a sparkling ray, a shadow-light!

       And blessed ye, in silly pastor's sight,

       Mild creatures, in whose warm crib now lies

       That heaven-sent youngling, holy-maid-born wight,

       Midst, end, beginning of our prophecies!