The Grey Brethren [7]
Joseph the carpenter, prostrate I fall; Praise thee, adore Thee, and claim Thee mine own.
MAID MARY
Babe, dear Babe! Mine own, mine own, my heart's delight, The myrrh between my breasts at night, My little Rose, my Lily white, My Babe for whom the star's alight.
Babe, dear Babe! Mine own, mine own, GOD'S only SON, Foretold, foreseen, since earth begun; Desire of nations, Promised One When Eve was first by sin undone.
Babe, dear Babe! Mine own, mine own, the whole world's Child! Born of each heart that's undefiled, Nursed at the breast of Mercy mild, And in the arms of Love asiled.
Babe, dear Babe! My crown of glory, sorrow's sword, My Maker, King, Redeemer, Lord, My Saviour and my great Reward; My little Son, my Babe adored.
THE THREE KINGS
Hail! Hail thou wondrous little King! To Thy dear Feet Our offerings meet With bended knee we bring; O mighty baby King, Accept the offering.
FIRST KING
LORD, I stoop low My head of snow, Thus I, the great, hail Thee, the Least! And swing the censer for the Priest, The Priest with hands upraised to bless, The Priest of this world's bitterness. As I stoop low My head of snow, Bless me, O Priest, before I go.
SECOND KING
Behold me, King! A man of might, Who rules dominions infinite; Strong in the harvest of the years, And one who counts no kings as peers. O little King, Behold my crown! I lay it down, And bow before Thy lowly bed My all unworthy uncrowned head, For I am naught and Thou art All. And Thou shalt climb a throne set high, Between sad earth and silent sky, Thereon to agonize and die; And at Thy Feet the world shall fall. Stretch out Thy little Hands, O King, Behold the world's imagining!
THIRD KING
Out of the shadow of the night I come, led by the starshine bright, With broken heart to bring to Thee The fruit of Thine Epiphany, The gift my fellows send by me, The myrrh to bed Thine agony. I set it here beneath Thy Feet, In token of Death's great defeat; And hail Thee Conqueror in the strife; And hail Thee Lord of Light and Life. All hail! All hail the Virgin's Son! All hail! Thou little helpless One! All hail! Thou King upon the Tree! All hail! The Babe on Mary's knee, The centre of all mystery!
All Souls' Day in a German Town
THE leaves fall softly: a wind of sighs Whispers the world's infirmities, Whispers the tale of the waning years, While slow mists gather in shrouding tears On All Souls' Day; and the bells are slow In steeple and tower. Sad folk go Away from the township, past the mill, And mount the slope of a grassy hill Carved into terraces broad and steep, To the inn where wearied travellers sleep, Where the sleepers lie in ordered rows, And no man stirs in his long repose. They wend their way past the haunts of life, Father and daughter, grandmother, wife, To deck with candle and deathless cross, The house which holds their dearest loss. I, who stand on the crest of the hill, Watch how beneath me, busied still, The sad folk wreathe each grave with flowers. Awhile the veil of the twilight hours Falls softly, softly, over the hill, Shadows the cross:- creeps on until Swiftly upon us is flung the dark. Then, as if lit by a sudden spark, Each grave is vivid with points of light, Earth is as Heaven's mirror to-night; The air is still as a spirit's breath, The lights burn bright in the realm of Death. Then silent the mourners mourning go, Wending their way to the church below; While the bells toll out to bid them speed, With eager Pater and prayerful bead, The souls of the dead, whose bodies still Lie in the churchyard under the hill; While they wait and wonder in Paradise, And gaze on the dawning mysteries, Praying for us in our hours of need; For us, who with Pater and prayerful bead Have bidden those waiting spirits speed.
Rivers and Streams
RUNNING water has a charm all its own; it proffers companionship of which one never tires; it adapts itself to moods; it is the guardian of secrets. It has cool draughts for the thirsty soul as well as for drooping flowers; and they who
MAID MARY
Babe, dear Babe! Mine own, mine own, my heart's delight, The myrrh between my breasts at night, My little Rose, my Lily white, My Babe for whom the star's alight.
Babe, dear Babe! Mine own, mine own, GOD'S only SON, Foretold, foreseen, since earth begun; Desire of nations, Promised One When Eve was first by sin undone.
Babe, dear Babe! Mine own, mine own, the whole world's Child! Born of each heart that's undefiled, Nursed at the breast of Mercy mild, And in the arms of Love asiled.
Babe, dear Babe! My crown of glory, sorrow's sword, My Maker, King, Redeemer, Lord, My Saviour and my great Reward; My little Son, my Babe adored.
THE THREE KINGS
Hail! Hail thou wondrous little King! To Thy dear Feet Our offerings meet With bended knee we bring; O mighty baby King, Accept the offering.
FIRST KING
LORD, I stoop low My head of snow, Thus I, the great, hail Thee, the Least! And swing the censer for the Priest, The Priest with hands upraised to bless, The Priest of this world's bitterness. As I stoop low My head of snow, Bless me, O Priest, before I go.
SECOND KING
Behold me, King! A man of might, Who rules dominions infinite; Strong in the harvest of the years, And one who counts no kings as peers. O little King, Behold my crown! I lay it down, And bow before Thy lowly bed My all unworthy uncrowned head, For I am naught and Thou art All. And Thou shalt climb a throne set high, Between sad earth and silent sky, Thereon to agonize and die; And at Thy Feet the world shall fall. Stretch out Thy little Hands, O King, Behold the world's imagining!
THIRD KING
Out of the shadow of the night I come, led by the starshine bright, With broken heart to bring to Thee The fruit of Thine Epiphany, The gift my fellows send by me, The myrrh to bed Thine agony. I set it here beneath Thy Feet, In token of Death's great defeat; And hail Thee Conqueror in the strife; And hail Thee Lord of Light and Life. All hail! All hail the Virgin's Son! All hail! Thou little helpless One! All hail! Thou King upon the Tree! All hail! The Babe on Mary's knee, The centre of all mystery!
All Souls' Day in a German Town
THE leaves fall softly: a wind of sighs Whispers the world's infirmities, Whispers the tale of the waning years, While slow mists gather in shrouding tears On All Souls' Day; and the bells are slow In steeple and tower. Sad folk go Away from the township, past the mill, And mount the slope of a grassy hill Carved into terraces broad and steep, To the inn where wearied travellers sleep, Where the sleepers lie in ordered rows, And no man stirs in his long repose. They wend their way past the haunts of life, Father and daughter, grandmother, wife, To deck with candle and deathless cross, The house which holds their dearest loss. I, who stand on the crest of the hill, Watch how beneath me, busied still, The sad folk wreathe each grave with flowers. Awhile the veil of the twilight hours Falls softly, softly, over the hill, Shadows the cross:- creeps on until Swiftly upon us is flung the dark. Then, as if lit by a sudden spark, Each grave is vivid with points of light, Earth is as Heaven's mirror to-night; The air is still as a spirit's breath, The lights burn bright in the realm of Death. Then silent the mourners mourning go, Wending their way to the church below; While the bells toll out to bid them speed, With eager Pater and prayerful bead, The souls of the dead, whose bodies still Lie in the churchyard under the hill; While they wait and wonder in Paradise, And gaze on the dawning mysteries, Praying for us in our hours of need; For us, who with Pater and prayerful bead Have bidden those waiting spirits speed.
Rivers and Streams
RUNNING water has a charm all its own; it proffers companionship of which one never tires; it adapts itself to moods; it is the guardian of secrets. It has cool draughts for the thirsty soul as well as for drooping flowers; and they who