Hora Christi

SWEET is the time for joyous folk

Of gifts and minstrelsy;

Yet I, O lowly-hearted One,

Crave but Thy company.

On lonesome road, beset with dread,

My questing lies afar.

I have no light, save in the east

The gleaming of Thy star.

In cloistered aisles they keep to-day

Thy feast, O living Lord!

With pomp of banner, pride of song,

And stately sounding word.

Mute stand the kings of power and place,

While priests of holy mind

Dispense Thy blessed heritage

Of peace to all mankind.

I know a spot where budless twigs

Are bare above the snow,

And where sweet winter-loving birds

Flit softly to and fro;

There with the sun for altar-fire,

The earth for kneeling-place,

The gentle air for chorister,

Will I adore Thy face.

Loud, underneath the great blue sky,

My heart shall pæan sing,

The gold and myrrh of meekest love

Mine only offering.

Bliss of Thy birth shall quicken me;

And for Thy pain and dole

Tears are but vain, so I will keep

The silence of the soul.