The ar­rowy sleet, and win­ter wind,
That beat against our latch­èd door,
With plaint­ive voic­es call to mind
The wants and sor­rows of the poor.

Can we en­joy our Christ­mas home,
Its cheer­ful fire, and ta­ble spread,
Yet light­ly think of those that roam
Without, un­shel­tered and un­fed?

We all need kind­ness: who shall say
But he may come at last to crave
Relief along the rug­ged way,
That leads through trou­ble to the grave?

Then love the poor; and ope your hand,
Not grudg­ing­ly but with good will,
And suf­fer not the needy band
To stand un­helped and shiv­er­ing still.

For ’tis a bless­èd thing in­deed,
Which not e’en mon­archs should des­pise,
When men of wealth and good­ness read
Their his­to­ry in the poor man’s eyes.

Now change the view; and who shall dare
To treat with in­sult or ne­glect
Those whom the Lord hath made His care,
And whom He sure­ly will pro­tect?

Turn to the words of sac­red lore,
And mark how ful­ly they dis­close
His will, who car­eth for the poor,
And tak­eth ven­geance on their foes.

See what a hedge He hath sup­plied,
And made the suf­fer­ers’ cause His own,
Lest fierce­ness, or the foot of pride,
Should hurt the poor, or cast them down.

Hath He not sent His on­ly Son
To share and thus to sanc­ti­fy
A state that need bring shame to none,
The state of low­ly po­ver­ty?

Yes, Christ en­dured the shame and loss;
And His cold home at Beth­le­hem,
The mount­ains bare, the pain­ful cross,
May teach the poor He cared for them.

Foxes had holes, the bird its nest;
But while each crea­ture found a bed,
The Sav­ior had no place of rest,
Whereon to lay His wea­ry head.

O hon­or then your mak­er’s name;
And love the poor, lest ye be found
Reproaching Him who poor be­came,
That ye in rich­es might abound.