Classic Poem

The Christmas-time draws on apace;
The happy crowds go up and down;
There's joy and hope in all the town;
And in each little maiden's face

A look of expectation sweet,
That comes of musing oft and long
On what that day of gift and song
Shall bring to her as offering meet.

But I will sit alone and dream
Of Him who gave the day its name;
And think of all His wondrous fame,
And if to Him it strange doth seem.

That in these happy, careless ways,
As often as the years come round,
We mark with light, and joyful sound,
His advent and His toilsome days.

And deeper still my thoughts shall go,
And ponder if He hears above,
'Mid all the heavenly peace and love,
Our weary talking to and fro;

Our asking how it all began,
And what the secret of His power,
That since He came until this hour,
The world has said, “Behold the man!”

Behold the man! Behold the God!
Ah, which to say, and how, and why!
In vain our tangled reasons try
The path so many feet have trod.

O man of sorrows, man of joy!—
Of joy for all Thy strife and scars,—
Whereso Thou art among the stars,
In peace that nothing can destroy,—

Though we our voices may not blend
With that hoarse chant the centuries raise,
Yet is it not a sweeter praise
To say, “Our brother and our friend”?

And if beyond this verge of time,
We know Thee better as Thou art,
Wilt Thou not clasp us heart to heart,
As fills our ears the heavenly chime?