Blest is the mother mild,
And blest her holy Child!
For in her womb rests He by whom
The Lord is reconciled.
In Him a world forlorn
Sees her Salvation born;
He bears the gloom of cross and tomb
And robs death of its thorn.
Blest is the little town
Where heav'n to earth drops down:
Where weak and small, the Lord of all
Claims Israel's golden crown;
Where myrrh and frankincense
Waft their significance.
While mages crawl and kingdoms fall,
His dealings are immense.
Blest are these latter days
When safe His flock may graze:
No altar's fire does God desire;
From sin He turns His gaze.
A body He prepares
And in our nature shares,
Walks through our mire, our trouble dire,
Our due chastisement bears.
Behold, how blest are we
Whom, all unworthily,
Our Lord should deign to entertain
In such humility!
So live that He derives
A sweet scent from our lives;
Put on faith's spice, that gift of price,
Till He again arrives.
O world, from folly turn;
A fume of worship burn
And look, intent for His advent,
For which creation yearns.
Then let the night wax old,
Earth melt and heaven fold;
Come, our ascent where Jesus went,
Pearl gates and streets of gold!
1 comment:
Ordinarily, at this point, I'd be dropping a hint about "Hymn 0" and milestones and whatnot, but I'm actually more excited about the fact that "Hymn 500" (in the book) is coming up in a few numbers. Even though that number is, obviously, inflated by things other than my original hymns.
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