The Dusty Bookcase: 'Christmas' by S. Frances Harrison

CHRISTMAS

Who will sing the Christ?
Will he who rang his Christmas chimes
Of faith and hope in Gospel ray,
That pealed along the world's highway,
And woke the world to purer times—
Will he sing the Christ?

Or that new voice which vaguely gives—
One day its song for Rome—the next,
In soul-destroying strife perplext
For England's faith and future lives
Shall he sing the Christ?

Or the sweet children in the schools,
That hymn their carols hand-in-hand
All purely, can they understand
The wisdom that must make us fools—
Can they sing the Christ?

Or yearning priest who to his kind
From carven pulpit gives the Word,
Or praying mother who has erred,
And blindly led her erring blind—
Have they not sung the Christ?

"Lord! I of sinners am the chief!"
One, seated by his Christmas fires,
Hearkens the bells from distant spires,
But hangs his head in unbelief—
He cannot sing the Christ.

Grant to such, Lord, the seeing eye!
Grant as the World grows old and cold,
All hearts Thy beauty may behold.
Grant, lest the souls of sinners die—
That All may sing the Christ.