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This is the
month, and this the happy morn,
Wherein the Son of
Heav'n's Eternal King,
Of wedded Maid and Virgin
Mother born,
Our great redemption from above did
bring;
For so the holy sages once did sing
That He
our deadly forfeit should release,
And with His
Father work us a perpetual peace.
That glorious
Form, that Light unsufferable,
And that far-beaming
blaze of Majesty,
Wherewith He wont at Heav'n's high
council-table
To sit the midst of Trinal Unity,
He
laid aside; and, here with us to be,
Forsook the
courts of everlasting day,
And chose with us a
darksome house of mortal clay.
Say, Heavenly
Muse, shall not thy sacred vein
Afford a present to
the Infant God?
Hast thou no verse, no hymn, or
solemn strain,
To welcome Him to this His new abode,
Now while the Heaven, by the sun's team untrod,
Hath
took no print of the approaching light,
And all the
spangled host keep watch in squadrons bright?
See
how from far upon the eastern road
The star-led
wizards haste with odours sweet:
O run, prevent them
with thy humble ode,
And lay it lowly at His blessed
feet;
Have thou the honour first thy Lord to greet,
And join thy voice unto the Angel choir,
From out his
secret altar touched with hallowed fire.
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