The Christ­mas time draws on apace;
The hap­py crowds go up and down;
There’s joy and hope in all the town;
And in each lit­tle maid­en’s face

A look of ex­pec­ta­tion sweet,
That comes of mus­ing oft and long
On what that day of gift and song
Shall bring to her as of­fer­ing meet.

But I will sit alone and dream
Of Him who gave the day its name;
And think of all His won­drous fame,
And if to Him it strange doth seem,

That in these hap­py, care­less ways,
As oft­en as the years come round,
We mark with light, and joy­ful sound,
His ad­vent and His toil­some days.

And deep­er still my thoughts shall go,
And pon­der if He hears above,
’Mid all the heav’n­ly peace and love,
Our wea­ry talk­ing to and fro;

Our ask­ing how it all be­gan,
And what the sec­ret of His pow­er,
That since He came, un­til this hour,
The world has said, Be­hold the Man!

Behold the Man! Be­hold the God!
Oh, which to say, and how and why!
In vain our tan­gled rea­sons try
The path so ma­ny feet have trod.

O Man of sor­rows, Man of joy!
Of joy for all Thy strife and scars—
Whereso Thou art among the stars,
In peace that no­thing can de­stroy.

If there Thou know­est what we do,
Who lin­ger here be­neath the sun,
Thou know­est that the re­cords run—
I came to wit­ness to the true.

To wit­ness Thou, and we to seek:
What is the truth? our stead­fast cry.
Oh hear it, dwell­ing o’er so high,
Nor deem our re­ver­ence cold and weak,

Thou we our voic­es may not blend
With that hoarse chant the cen­tu­ries raise!
For is it not a sweet­er praise
To say, Our bro­ther and our friend?

And if, be­yond this verge of time,
We know Thee bet­ter as Thou art,
Wilt Thou not clasp us heart to heart,
As fills our ears the hea­ven­ly chime?