Classic Poem

Ye choir Angelic, hail the glorious Morn,
In which a Saviour, full of grace was born!
Ye raptur'd Seraphs, hallelujahs sing;
In choral symphonies, extol thy King.
All nature join to celebrate his fame,
And the glad tidings to the Earth proclaim,
Ye holy Prophets, who his birth foretold;
Your true predictions we with joy behold!
Ye Ministers of Grace, perform his will;
In thought and deed his blessed word fulfil!
The Saviour of the World was not array'd
With majesty of pomp, and vain parade;
In sweet humility he came attir'd,
In pity to our sins, with grief inspir'd.
Kind Mediator, Advocate divine;
Whose life and precepts were alike benign!
Shall thy Disciples e'er in malice live;
Obtain forgiveness, and yet not forgive?
Ye Worldlings, wiser than the Sons of Light,
Say, whence your happiness, and false delight?
Extend your views, in stedfast hope array'd;
Nor yield the substance, for an empty shade:
The Day-spring from on high, with lustre bright,
Now cheers the World with his effulgent light!
The saving health, and hope of human kind;
Sweet balm of comfort to the troubled mind;
The heavy-laden, hence obtain due rest;
The meek are comforted, the mourner blest;
The thirsty soul finds mild refreshing streams;
And e'en the blind enlighten'd by his beams;
The deaf attend, with love and wonder gaze;
The dumb break forth to sing his mighty praise;
At his approach pale miseries decrease;
The bond of happiness, and source of peace:
A Lamb immaculate, tho' doom'd to bleed,
Whose blood redeem'd us, and whose bondage freed.
By zeal inspir'd, I meditate his praise,
To highest pitch my feeble accents raise;
In sounds Seraphic may I catch the flame,
Invoke my Saviour, and his pow'r proclaim,
All hail Redeemer, hail Almighty King,
To whom the Mountains dance, the Valleys sing!
Thou great Messiah! we are nought but dust,
Tho' heirs with thee, in Kingdoms of the Just.
Celestial Pow'r, of Righteousness the Sun!
On Earth, as 'tis in Heav'n, thy will be done.
Kings of the Earth shall bend the willing knee,
And mighty Potentates submit to Thee.
What is their pomp, and triumph of a day,
To thy dominions, which will ne'er decay?
Their pow'r expires, where thine did but begin;
For 'twas by Death thou vanquish'd pain and sin.
Thou Shepherd of our souls, the holy Rock
On whom we rest, receive thy erring Flock;
Oh! gather to thyself the straying sold,
For which thy Life by treachery was sold:
A ransom great, a sacrifice immense,
But not unequal to the great offence!
Who else but thee, could expiate or atone
For our transgressions? 'twas in thee alone!
Exempt from Sin, thou art the Paschal Lamb,
Issu'd immediate from the great I AM;
Who thus address'd thee on the wond'ring Earth,
“Thou art my Son, this Day I gave thee Birth!”