Mary Mother of Divine Grace

And wakes, O marvellous!
New Nazareths in us,

Where she shall yet conceive

Him, morning, noon, and eve;
New Bethlems, and he born

There, evening, noon and morn—
Bethlem or Nazareth,

Men here may draw like breath
More Christ, and baffle death;
Who, born so, comes to be
New self, and nobler me
In each one, and each one
More makes, when all is done,
Both God's and Mary's son.
Again, look overhead

How air is azurèd.

O how! nay do but stand
Where you can lift your hand
Skywards: rich, rich it laps
Round the four finger-gaps.
Yet such a sapphire-shot,
Charged, steeped sky will not
Stain light. Yea, mark you this:
It does no prejudice.

The glass-blue days are those
When every colour glows,
Each shape and shadow shows.
Blue be it: this blue heaven
The seven or seven times seven

Mary Mother of Divine Grace

Hued sunbeam will transmit
Perfect, not alter it.

Or if there does some soft

On things aloof, aloft,

Bloom breathe, that one breath more

Earth is the fairer for.

Whereas did air not make

This bath of blue and slake
His fire, the sun would shake,
A blear and blinding ball
With blackness bound, and all
The thick stars round him roll
Flashing like flecks of coal,
Quartz-fret, or sparks of salt
In grimy vasty vault.

So God was God of old;

A mother came to mould
Those limbs like ours which are
What must make our daystar
Much dearer to mankind:
Whose glory bare would blind
Or less would win man's mind.
Through her we may see Him
Made sweeter, not made dim,
And her hand leaves His light
Sifted to suit our sight.

Be thou, then, O thou dear
Mother, my atmosphere;
My happier world wherein
To wend and meet no sin;

Mary Mother of Divine Grace

Above me, round me lie
Fronting my froward eye
With sweet and scarless sky;
Stir in my ears, speak there
Of God's love, O live air,
Of patience, penance, prayer;
World-mothering air, air wild,
Wound with thee, in thee isled,
Fold home, fast fold thy child.

GERARD HOPKINS

79.

CO

A MEDITATION FOR

CHRISTMAS DAY

ONSIDER, O my soul, what morn is this! Whereon the eternal Lord of all things made For us, poor mortals, and our endless bliss,

Came down from heaven; and, in a manger laid, The first, rich, offerings of our ransom paid: Consider, O my soul, what morn is this!

Consider what estate of fearful woe

Had then been ours, had He refused this birth; From sin to sin tossed vainly to and fro,

Hell's playthings, o'er a doomed and helpless earth! Had He from us withheld His priceless worth, Consider man's estate of fearful woe!

Consider to what joys He bids thee rise,

Who comes, Himself, life's bitter cup to drain!

A Meditation for Christmas Day

Ah! look on this sweet Child, whose innocent eyes,
Ere all be done, shall close in mortal pain,

That thou at last Love's Kingdom may'st attain:
Consider to what joys He bids thee rise!

Consider all this wonder, O my soul:

And in thine inmost shrine make music sweet! Yea, let the world, from furthest pole to pole, Join in thy praises this dread birth to greet! Kneeling to kiss thy Saviour's infant feet! Consider all this wonder, O my soul !

SELWYN IMAGE

80.

I

A MORNING SONG FOR

CHRISTMAS DAY

[For Music.]

AKE, what unusual light doth greet
The early dusk of this our street?

2 It is the Lord! it is the Christ!
That hath the will of God sufficed;
That ere the day is born anew,
Himself is born a Child for you.
Chorus.

The harp, the viol, and the lute,

To strike a praise unto our God!
Bring here the reeds! bring here the flute!
Wake summer from the winter's sod!

Oh, what a feast of feasts is given

To His poor servants, by the King of Heaven!

A Morning Song for Christmas Day

3 Where is the Lord?

2

Here is the Lord,

At thine own door. 'Tis He, the Word;
He, at whose face, the eternal speed
Of orb on orb was changed to song.
Shall He the sound of viols heed,
Whose ears have heard so high a throng?
Shall He regard the citherns strung
To whom the morning stars have sung?
Chorus.

Then wake, my heart, and sweep the strings,
The seven in the Lyre of Life!
Instead of lutes, the spirit sings;
With praise its quiet house is rife!
Oh, what a feast of feasts is given

To His poor servants, by the King of Heaven!

4 Who is the Lord?

2

He is the Lord,

That Light of light, that Chief of all !

3 Who is the Lord?

2

He is the Lord,

An outcast lying in a stall;

For in the inn no room is left,
While the unworthy feast instead;
He of all welcome is bereft,

And hath not where to lay His head.
I What fitter place could I prepare,
What better cradle, say, is there
Than this my heart, if that were fair?