Christmas Eve 1914
Silent, to-night, o'er Judah's hills
Bend low the angel throng,
No heavenly music fills the air
Exultantly with song;
Yet, close above the sin-scarred earth,
Broods still the Love Divine,
And through the darkness, as of old,
The stars of pity shine.
Silent, to-night, is Bethlehem:
Along the hushèd ways
No eager feet of worshippers,
No melodies of praise;
Yet, in the quietness that fills
The waiting hearts of men,
The ancient miracle of hope
Is wrought, to-night, again.
O holy Christ! to whom, of old,
The wondering shepherds came,
The light they sought with flaming joy
We seek in contrite shame;
And though men strive, we dare to hope
That Thou again art born,
For, through the night of our despair,
Behold! Thy star of morn!
poem by Eugene Field
Added by Poetry Lover
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