 | Wood-notes and Church-bells |  |
212
BETHLEHEM.
The glory which had faded from the skies,Nor left on cloud or grassy hill one trace,
Still shone reflected on the Virgin's face
Bent o'er the manger where her Infant lies.
Wide open are those sweet, mysterious eyes—
Divine effulgence veiled with mortal grace:
Inside that stable is earth's holiest place,
And wondering angels stoop o'er a Babe's cries.
O Lord, since Thou so mean a shelter usest,
No roof too low for such a loving Guest,
And “base things of the world” even still Thou choosest;
I have a room for Thee most dim and lowly—
Oh, let my heart become Thy chosen rest,
And with Thy presence make it bright and holy!
| Wood-notes and Church-bells | |