All Heaven and it was One Hour Old : a Christmas with Katherine Tynan

The Christmas moon shines clear and bright;
There were poor trav'llers such a night
Had neither fire nor candlelight.
One plucked them stars out of the sky
To show the road to travel by;
So that the ass go warily.
She had all Heaven safe in her hold,
Hidden within her mantles fold:
All Heaven and it was one hour old.
Her hair under, over Him spread
His spun gold coverlet and His bed,
Twined with his little golden head.
She sang and rocked Him to-and-fro
Such songs as little babies know,
With lullaby sweet and lullalo.
He had no need of moons or suns,
Nor the gold-crested bird legions,
Singing their lauds and orisons.
The Christmas moon shows a cold beam:
He hath His mother she hath Him:
Together they sleep, togeth-er dream.

Where man was all too marred with sin,
The ass, the ox, were bidden in.
Where angels were unmeet to come
the humble entered Holydom.
Their innocent eyes, all full of awe,
saw the fulfillment of the Law.
There, in the stab-le with the beast
the Christmas Child hath spread His feast.
These gave their bed and eke their board
to be a cradle for the Lord.
Their honey breath their tears all mild
Warmed in the cold the newborn child.
These His adorers were before
the kings and shepherds thronged the door.
And where no angels knelt there kneeled
the innocent creatures of the field.

The kings to the stable
They brought sweet spice.
Gold and silver,
jewels of price.
But the dove by the manger
she would not cease
Mourning so softly:
Bring Him peace!
The Kings of the Orient
brought nard and clove.
The dove went mourning:
Bring Him love! Bring Him love!

What would content Him in silver and gold,
a newborn Baby but one hour old?
Myrrh shall not please Him, nor ambergris,
that hath the sweet savour of His mother's kiss.

There is clash of battle,
And men hate and slay:
From the noise and the tumult
she hides Him away.
But His sleep is fitful
on His mother's breast,
The Dove goes mourning:
Give Him rest; give Him rest!

I saw three ships asailing,
a-sail-ing on the sea,
The first her masts were silver,
Her hull was Ivory.
The snows came driftting softly,
And lined her white as wool;
Oh, Jesus, Son of Mary,
Thy Crad-le beau-ti-ful!

I saw three ships a-sailing,
The next was red as blood,
Her decks shone like a ruby,
Encrimsoned all her wood.
Her main mast stood up lonely,
A lonely cross and stark.
Oh, Jesus, Son of Mary,
Bring all men to that ark!

I saw three ships a-sailing.
The third for cargo bore
The souls of men redeemed,
That shall be slaves no more.
The lost beloved faces,
I saw them glad and free.
Oh, Jesus, Son of Mary,
When wilt thou come for me?