HARP-SONG

HARP-SONG

A myriad mirthful cherubs

struck haunting harps till morn

on a lonely Bethlehem hillside

when the little Christ was born.

What matter the midnight darkness,

or a witching wind run wild?

The fragile maiden Mary

bowed her head and smiled

to eyes that had looked down ages

with a pathos none can speak;

to lips that had uttered judgement,

small lips that would brush her cheek.

All the gathered loves of heaven

one joy-stricken heart could fill

        were hers in a brief night’s rapture,

when grief and the stars stood still.

O lovely, wistful Mary,

from His simple bed of hay

lift up your Child to bless

this holy Christmas day.

Sister M Thérèse SDS

Now there is Beauty. MacMillan. 1940

Used with permission

.