Christmas-Day, 1878

I think I might be weary of this day That comes inevitably every year, The same when I was young and strong and gay, The same when I am old and growing sere- I should grow weary of it every year But that thou comest to me every day. I shall grow weary if thou every day But come to me, Lord of eternal life; I shall grow weary thus to watch and pray, For ever out of labour into strife; Take everlasting house with me, my life, And I shall be new-born this Christmas-day. Thou art the Eternal Son, and born no day, But ever he the Father, thou the Son; I am his child, but being born alway- How long, O Lord, how long till it be done? Be thou from endless years to years the Son- And I thy brother, new-born every day.