Christmas Hymn

O CHRIST, born on the holy day, I have no gift to give my King; No flowers grow by my weary way; I have no birthday song to sing. How can I sing Thy name and praise, Who never saw Thy face divine; Who walk in darkness all my days, And see no Eastern stars a-shine? Yet, when their Christmas gifts they bring, How can I leave Thy praise unsung? How stay from homage to the King, And hold a silent, grudging tongue? Lord, I found many a song to sing, And many a humble hymn of praise For Thy great Miracle of Spring, The wonder of the waxing days. When I beheld Thy days and years, Did I not sing Thy pleasant earth? The moons of love, the years of tears, The mysteries of death and birth? Have I not sung with all my soul While soul and song were mine to yield, Thy lightning crown, Thy cloud-control, The dewy clover of Thy field? Have I not loved Thy birds and beasts, Thy streams and woods, Thy sun and shade; Have I not made me holy feasts Of all the beauty Thou hast made? What though my tear-tired eyes, alas! Won never grace Thy face to see? I heard Thy footstep on the grass, Thy voice in every wind-blown tree. No music now I make or win, Yet, Lord, remember I have been The lover of Thy world, wherein I found nought common or unclean. Grown old and blind, I sing no more, Thy saints in heaven sing sweet and strong, Yet take the songs I made of yore For echoes to Thy birthday song.