One Hundred Holy Songs, Carols, and Sacred Ballads Original, and suitable for music [by Jean Ingelow] |
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LISTENING TO THE WAITS. |
 | One Hundred Holy Songs, Carols, and Sacred Ballads |  |
143
LISTENING TO THE WAITS.
“Behold we bring you good tidings.”
Deep the snowdrift covereth all,
Stars do sparkle as they'd fall;
Hark! the waits come down the street,
Heart o' mine, their news is sweet.
Nay, I care not for the cold,
Harkening thus good tidings old;
“Wake! you friends and neighbours, wake!
Thank the Lord for Christ, His sake.
Stars do sparkle as they'd fall;
Hark! the waits come down the street,
Heart o' mine, their news is sweet.
Nay, I care not for the cold,
Harkening thus good tidings old;
“Wake! you friends and neighbours, wake!
Thank the Lord for Christ, His sake.
“Count not our good news outworn;
Christ as on this night was born,
When to God the tidings came,
Clustering angels heard the same;
And He sent by Bethlehem town,
As it were an handful down,
Saying, ‘Sing, for mortals' cheer,
Songs myself am used to hear.’
Christ as on this night was born,
When to God the tidings came,
Clustering angels heard the same;
And He sent by Bethlehem town,
As it were an handful down,
Saying, ‘Sing, for mortals' cheer,
Songs myself am used to hear.’
“Joyous on their mission went
God's good children innocent;
Blessèd creatures, how they sang,
All the moonlit welkin rang,
‘Peace, goodwill—goodwill and peace;
This poor world shall find release;’
Friends and neighbours, answer make,
Thank the Lord for Christ, His sake.
God's good children innocent;
Blessèd creatures, how they sang,
All the moonlit welkin rang,
‘Peace, goodwill—goodwill and peace;
This poor world shall find release;’
Friends and neighbours, answer make,
Thank the Lord for Christ, His sake.
144
“What, and will you wake to sigh?
We are old, we do but die;
We must mourn, our children sleep
In the grave, and in the deep;
We are poor, our toil is drear,
There is no room for us here;
Peace, you wanting souls, e'en so
Fared it with your Lord below.
We are old, we do but die;
We must mourn, our children sleep
In the grave, and in the deep;
We are poor, our toil is drear,
There is no room for us here;
Peace, you wanting souls, e'en so
Fared it with your Lord below.
“But once more He comes from God,
Master of this earthly sod;
Then the proud shall meet rebuff,
Then the poor shall have enough;
Then the mourners glad shall be,
Then th' oppressèd shall go free;
Bide in hope, He comes again,
Sleep and rest, He comes to reign.”
Master of this earthly sod;
Then the proud shall meet rebuff,
Then the poor shall have enough;
Then the mourners glad shall be,
Then th' oppressèd shall go free;
Bide in hope, He comes again,
Sleep and rest, He comes to reign.”
Hush, adown the snow-clad street
Faints away their music sweet;
Jesus Christ, this wint'ry night,
Stand me instead of warmth and light,—
Nay, I care not for the cold,
Waiting on glad tidings old;
All my song shall henceforth be,
“Well is me,” and “well is me.”
Faints away their music sweet;
Jesus Christ, this wint'ry night,
Stand me instead of warmth and light,—
Nay, I care not for the cold,
Waiting on glad tidings old;
All my song shall henceforth be,
“Well is me,” and “well is me.”
| One Hundred Holy Songs, Carols, and Sacred Ballads | |