Amid the dismal din of cheerless wind,
The wintry silence of centuries sinned,
The longing angels looked through lowest night
And spied a sudden spring of newborn light.
The earth below had groaned its sullen sigh,
Yet suddenly was heard a new reply -
The advent cry! - from lips unused to cold
That quivered 'neath a mother's swaddled hold.
What awe-inflicting wonder struck the eyes
Of angels as they heard their Maker's cries?
An infant, this, the Penman of their fate,
The Word and Wisdom of the Heavenly state;
The Prologue of Creation's ancient sky
Now found without a word upon his cry;
Yes he, the Weaver of Reality,
With fetal fingers clenching sleepily.
How could they see what seemed as blasphemy,
The Holy One as man in infancy?
Surrounded not by glory, light, or smoke,
Nor by the stars he named when first they woke,
Not even by a prophet, king, or priest
(Though he would be all three, and not the least),
But by the coughing cattle, cows and sheep,
Who shambled 'round for food, for warmth and sleep.
Within this trough, where speechless beasts would feed,
Upon the prickling hay of lamb and steed,
The Food of Man was set to rest and bloom,
Delivered from his mother's virgin womb.
So quickened then the angels to their flight,
Arranged in flanks, in rows of choral might,
Not to guard or rescue their Commander,
Not to stop the people's passing slander,
But to marvel - but to sing -
But to symphonize for him, the King,
So that the air should shiver for the boy,
Amid the winsome wind of Heaven's joy.