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!