On Christmas Day
What can I give you on this day,
My dear, dear friend of many years?
Your love, as steadfast as the sun,
Along my lengthening life has run,
Nor failed me once, nor made delay,
Nor laughed to scorn my hopes and fears.
When I am weakest, still your hand
Is stretched to touch me in my place.
Whatever comes, I smile serene,
To think my soul on yours can lean,
For you are sure to understand,
And peace and strength are in your face.
O lightly, lightly, to and fro,
The gifts on Christmas day are passed.
Our hands are weary as they hold
The tiresome trinkets bought with gold;
A while they please us with their glow,
But back to dust they fall at last.
Alas! my friend, how poor I am!
No gift I bring you on this day.
No filmy web from Indian loom,
Nor gem, nor flower, nor rare perfume,
Nor spices fine, nor costly balm,
Before your feet my hands may lay.
And yet I love you, love you, dear,
And love a deathless thing must be.
Mine shall enfold you, when your face
Makes happier still some heavenly place,
And no revolving earthly year
Brings tears or pain to you and me.
What can I give you on this day,
My dear, dear friend of many years?
Your love, as steadfast as the sun,
Along my lengthening life has run,
Nor failed me once, nor made delay,
Nor laughed to scorn my hopes and fears.
When I am weakest, still your hand
Is stretched to touch me in my place.
Whatever comes, I smile serene,
To think my soul on yours can lean,
For you are sure to understand,
And peace and strength are in your face.
O lightly, lightly, to and fro,
The gifts on Christmas day are passed.
Our hands are weary as they hold
The tiresome trinkets bought with gold;
A while they please us with their glow,
But back to dust they fall at last.
Alas! my friend, how poor I am!
No gift I bring you on this day.
No filmy web from Indian loom,
Nor gem, nor flower, nor rare perfume,
Nor spices fine, nor costly balm,
Before your feet my hands may lay.
And yet I love you, love you, dear,
And love a deathless thing must be.
Mine shall enfold you, when your face
Makes happier still some heavenly place,
And no revolving earthly year
Brings tears or pain to you and me.
My dear, dear friend of many years?
Your love, as steadfast as the sun,
Along my lengthening life has run,
Nor failed me once, nor made delay,
Nor laughed to scorn my hopes and fears.
When I am weakest, still your hand
Is stretched to touch me in my place.
Whatever comes, I smile serene,
To think my soul on yours can lean,
For you are sure to understand,
And peace and strength are in your face.
O lightly, lightly, to and fro,
The gifts on Christmas day are passed.
Our hands are weary as they hold
The tiresome trinkets bought with gold;
A while they please us with their glow,
But back to dust they fall at last.
Alas! my friend, how poor I am!
No gift I bring you on this day.
No filmy web from Indian loom,
Nor gem, nor flower, nor rare perfume,
Nor spices fine, nor costly balm,
Before your feet my hands may lay.
And yet I love you, love you, dear,
And love a deathless thing must be.
Mine shall enfold you, when your face
Makes happier still some heavenly place,
And no revolving earthly year
Brings tears or pain to you and me.
What can I give you on this day,
My dear, dear friend of many years?
Your love, as steadfast as the sun,
Along my lengthening life has run,
Nor failed me once, nor made delay,
Nor laughed to scorn my hopes and fears.
When I am weakest, still your hand
Is stretched to touch me in my place.
Whatever comes, I smile serene,
To think my soul on yours can lean,
For you are sure to understand,
And peace and strength are in your face.
O lightly, lightly, to and fro,
The gifts on Christmas day are passed.
Our hands are weary as they hold
The tiresome trinkets bought with gold;
A while they please us with their glow,
But back to dust they fall at last.
Alas! my friend, how poor I am!
No gift I bring you on this day.
No filmy web from Indian loom,
Nor gem, nor flower, nor rare perfume,
Nor spices fine, nor costly balm,
Before your feet my hands may lay.
And yet I love you, love you, dear,
And love a deathless thing must be.
Mine shall enfold you, when your face
Makes happier still some heavenly place,
And no revolving earthly year
Brings tears or pain to you and me.
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