Child of the stable's secret birth,
the Lord by right of the lords of earth,
let angels sing of a King newborn,
the world is weaving a crown of thorn:
a crown of thorn for that infant head
cradled soft in the manger bed.
Eyes that shine in the lantern's ray;
a face so small in its nest of hay,
face of a child who is born to scan
the world he made through the eyes of man:
and from that face in the final day
earth and heaven shall flee away.
Voice that rang through the courts on high,
contracted now to a wordless cry,
a voice to master the wind and wave,
the human heart and the hungry grave:
the voice of God through the cedar trees
rolling forth as the sound of seas.
Infant hands in a mother's hand,
for none but Mary may understand
whose are the hands and the fingers curled
but his who fashioned and made the world;
and through these hands in the hour of death
nails shall strike to the wood beneath.
Child of the stable's secret birth,
the Father's gift to a wayward earth,
to drain the cup in a few short years
of all our sorrows , our sins, and tears--
ours the prize for the road he trod:
risen with Christ; at peace with God.