 | A Sonnet Chronicle |  |
39
A Christmas Message, 1902
There is no work, the wolf is at the door—
The thousands in our cities cry forlorn
“Those bells but mock with tale of Christmas morn;
No Saviour comes from Heaven our want to cure!”
Nay, but His fan shall throughly purge His floor,
To-day He winnows chaff from honest corn,
The Bread of all the world again is born
And bids us dare for brotherhood be poor.
The thousands in our cities cry forlorn
“Those bells but mock with tale of Christmas morn;
No Saviour comes from Heaven our want to cure!”
Nay, but His fan shall throughly purge His floor,
To-day He winnows chaff from honest corn,
The Bread of all the world again is born
And bids us dare for brotherhood be poor.
Ah! what avail our chanted hymns, and prayer,
Our green-wreathed churches and our altar rites,
If love of humankind no offering make?
Thro' heat of noon, thro' cold of starlit nights
The wise men came with gifts for Jesu's sake—
Give thou thy heart, thyself with all men share.
Our green-wreathed churches and our altar rites,
If love of humankind no offering make?
Thro' heat of noon, thro' cold of starlit nights
The wise men came with gifts for Jesu's sake—
Give thou thy heart, thyself with all men share.
| A Sonnet Chronicle | |