Spun-yarn And Spindrift Part 6

A CHRISTMAS CAROL

Just a little baby lying in a manger, G.o.d of G.o.ds and Light of Lights, the mighty King of Kings, Hark! the choiring angels chant their glad evangels, All the air is pulsing with the music of their wings.

Just a little baby on Mary's breast that bore Him, Helpless feet, and clinging hands, and lips that knew no word, And the darkness ringing with the angels' singing, Sounding through the solemn night, "All glory to the Lord."

Just a little baby wrapped in swaddling clothing-- All the earth forever thrills rejoicing in that birth, Through the centuries flying still hears those angels crying, "Glory be to G.o.d on high, and peace, goodwill to earth."

_DE PROFUNDIS_

Lord, from this prison-house that we have built, This dark abode of pain and misery, Failure and guilt, We stretch our hands, we stretch our hands to Thee, Lord, set us free.

O Lord, Thou knowest all--Thou knowest well The groping hands, the eyes that would not see, The feet that fell; Yet are we fain--are fain to come to Thee, Lord, set us free.

Bitter the chains that we have borne so long, The chains of sin we wove so heedlessly; Lo, Thou art strong, Out of the deeps we cry--we cry to Thee, Lord, set us free.

THE CRY OF THE d.a.m.nED

Have you no pity for us?--You, who stand Within that Heaven that we may never win, Who know the golden streets of that fair land Our weary feet are fain to be within.

Have you no ruth for us, who must abide In the great horror of the night outside?

We, too, once knew of laughter and delight, Who now must walk these weary roads of pain; Our hearts were pure as yours, our faces bright, In that glad life we may not know again; We might have gained your Heaven too--even we Who dwell with madness and with memory.

Within the pleasant pastures where your feet Stray, comes there never thought of our distress?

Do our wails never mar your music sweet?

Our parched throats change your draught to bitterness?

Your chance was ours--we lost it; yes, we know Ours was the fault--but, is it easier so?

Yet was it ours?--The dazzled eyes and blind, The wills that knew, but could not hold the good, The groping feet, that failed the path to find, The wild desires that filled the tainted blood?

Have you no ruth, who those bright barriers crossed, For us, who saw them open--and are lost?

OUR LADY OF REMEMBRANCE

She stoops to us from her dim recess With weary and wistful eyes; She has grown so tired of the censer's swing, Of the white-robed choir and the songs they sing, Of the priest's pale hand, upraised to bless, And the feast and the sacrifice.

They bow to her as the Mother blest Of the great and awful G.o.d; But her heart holds dearest His early years, The childish laughter, the childish tears, Ere His feet had the road of sorrows pressed, Or the way to the cross had trod.

Her thoughts go back to the days of yore-- Away from the garish light, And the organ's droning melody, To the starry sh.o.r.es of Galilee, To the vines that shaded her cottage door, And the hush of the Eastern night.

So she bends to us from her dim recess With weary and wistful eyes, And turns away from the tapers' light To dream of the cool and the hush of night, From the priest's pale hand, upraised to bless, To the starry Eastern skies.

MAID MARY

Maid Mary sat at her cottage door By the Lake of Galilee; Tall and stately her lilies were, But never was lily one-half so fair Or half so pure as she.

(O Mary, Maid and Mother of G.o.d, I pray you, pray for me.)

The shadows darkened along the sh.o.r.e Of the Lake of Galilee; What steps were those, as the twilight fell?

Lo, G.o.d's great angel, Gabriel: "Hail, blessed of G.o.d!" spake he.

(O Gabriel, Prince of the hosts of G.o.d, I pray you, pray for me.)

Maid Mary knelt on her cottage floor By the Lake of Galilee; And kneeling, dreamed strange dreams and sweet Of baby fingers and dimpled feet, And a Holy Thing to be: (O Christ, the Virgin-born Son of G.o.d, I pray You, pray for me.)

But she did not dream, as the night pa.s.sed o'er By the Lake of Galilee, Of the weary ways that the feet should tread, Of a th.o.r.n.y crown for a baby head, Or a cross on Calvary.

(O Son of Mary, O thorn-crowned G.o.d, I pray You, pray for me.)

THE TWO CROWNS

The young King rode through the City street, So gallant, gay and bold; There were roses strewn 'neath his horse's feet, His brows were bound with gold, And his heart was glad for his people's cheers Along his pathway rolled.

Glad was his heart and bright his face, For life and youth were fair; And he rode through many a pleasant place-- Broad street and sunny square-- Till he came to the market-place and saw A crucifix stand there.

Hushed were the crowd's exultant cries, To awe-struck silence grown; For they saw the young King's laughing eyes Grow grave beneath his crown, As the crowned King looked up, for lo!

A crowned King looked down.

Grave were the eyes above, and sad; The face with pain was lined, And the pierced hands no sceptre had; Both brows a crown did bind.

But the earthly King was crowned with gold-- The Christ with thorns entwined.

Slowly the young King homeward rode In awe and wondering; He had looked that day on the face of G.o.d, And learned that for a king The lordliest crown his brows can bear Is the crown of suffering.

A SPARROW IN CHURCH

Thou, Who hast said no sparrow e'er shall fall Without Thy knowledge, lend me now Thine aid.

I cry to Thee, O mighty Lord of all, Thy little living creature, sore afraid.

All my short life these fluttering wings have known Only the freedom of Thy sun and rain, And now they beat against these walls of stone-- Lord of the sparrows, shall they beat in vain?

The terrors of Thine House encompa.s.s me, Upon Thine altar I myself have laid; Hearken, O Lord, Thy sparrow calls to Thee, Thy little living creature, sore afraid.

SEA-GULLS