The Mystery of Mysteries is reached in the same cloud of unknowing which keeps Christmas both alive and vital... And from the pen of Herbert Howells I offer this: Here is the little door, lift up the latch, oh lift! We need not wander more but enter with our gift Our gift of finest gold. Gold that was never bought nor sold Myrrh to be strewn about His bed Incense in clouds about His head. All for the Child that stirs not in His sleep, But holy slumber hold with ass and sheep. Bend low about His bed, for each He has a gift. See how His eyes awake, lift up your hands, O lift! For gold, He gives a keen-edged sword (Defend with it Thy little Lord!) For incense, smoke of battle red Myrrh for the honoured happy dead. Gifts for His children, terrible and sweet Touched by such tiny hands and Oh such tiny feet - Francis Chesterton (1874-1936) https://youtube/watch?v=Q7PqbGQIyv8
Posted on: Wed, 24 Dec 2014 09:18:33 +0000