Sweet is the time for joyous folk
Of gifts and minstrelsy;
Yet, I, O lowly-hearted One
Crave but Thy company.
O 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 today
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.
Lord, underneath the great blue sky,
My heart shall pean 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.