We came on Christmas Day
Within the church to pray
And lit by candle-ray
I Mary saw
And Joseph and the mild
Ox and that little Child
With open arms who smiled
Amid the straw.
Behind a press of folk
We knelt and no one spoke,
Our Lady in her cloak
Made not less noise,
With folded fingers, than
Each silent kneeling man,
And sweet small girls who can
Be still, and boys.
But for that Babe divine,
His cot compared to mine,
There in the candle-shine
Was poor and hard.
Yet did He never cry,
Laid on such stems of rye
As we see blowing by
The stable yard.
And I who lie and wail,
Pent by the polished rail
Of my white cot while pale
The night-light gleams,
Who spurn my sheets and stain
The patchwork counterpane
With tears, then sink again
Into my dreams,
Must mind me of His lot
Whose mother poor had got
No whitely pillowed cot
To ease His head,
But was at pains to shake
The straws up for His sake
And did a manger make
Into His bed.
Sweet Jesus let me wear
My swaddling-bands of care
Smiling, and still forbear
To be so nice;
That thus I may behold
Thy True Face, being old,
Where straws are turned to gold
In Paradise.