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Edith Nesbit - Christmas Hymn
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O CHRIST, born on the holy day, 
    I have no gift to give my King; 
No flowers grow by my weary way; 
    I have no birthday song to sing. 


How can I sing Thy name and praise, 
    Who never saw Thy face divine; 
Who walk in darkness all my days, 
    And see no Eastern stars a-shine? 


Yet, when their Christmas gifts they bring, 
    How can I leave Thy praise unsung? 
How stay from homage to the King, 
    And hold a silent, grudging tongue? 


Lord, I found many a song to sing, 
    And many a humble hymn of praise 
For Thy great Miracle of Spring, 
    The wonder of the waxing days. 


When I beheld Thy days and years, 
    Did I not sing Thy pleasant earth? 
The moons of love, the years of tears, 
    The mysteries of death and birth? 


Have I not sung with all my soul 
    While soul and song were mine to yield, 
Thy lightning crown, Thy cloud-control, 
    The dewy clover of Thy field? 


Have I not loved Thy birds and beasts, 
    Thy streams and woods, Thy sun and shade; 
Have I not made me holy feasts 
    Of all the beauty Thou hast made? 


What though my tear-tired eyes, alas! 
    Won never grace Thy face to see? 
I heard Thy footstep on the grass, 
    Thy voice in every wind-blown tree. 


No music now I make or win, 
    Yet, Lord, remember I have been 
The lover of Thy world, wherein 
    I found nought common or unclean. 


Grown old and blind, I sing no more, 
    Thy saints in heaven sing sweet and strong, 
Yet take the songs I made of yore 
    For echoes to Thy birthday song.
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