'Child of the stable's secret birth
the Lord by right of the lords of earth;
let angels sing of a king new-born -
the world is weaving a crown of thorn:
a crown of thorn for that infant head
cradled soft in the manger bed.
Eyes that shine in the lantern's ray;
a face so small in its nest of hay -
face of a child who is born to scan
the world he made, through the eyes of a man:
and from that face in the final day
earth and heaven shall flee away.
Voice that rang through the courts on high
contracted now to wordless cry,
a voice to master the wind and wave,
the human heart and the hungry grave:
the voice of God through the cedar trees
rolling forth as the sound of seas.
Infant hand in a mother's hand,
for none but Mary may understand
whose are the hands and fingers curled
but his who fashioned and made our world;
and through these hands in the hour of death
nails strike to wood beneath.
Child of the stable's secret birth,
the Father's gift to a wayward earth,
to drain the cup in a few short years
of all our sorrows, our sin and tears -
ours the prize for the road he trod:
risen with Christ; at peace with God.'
Timothy Dudley-Smith
