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The
Nativity: Selected Texts |
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When the Maker of time, the Word
of the Father, was made flesh, He gave us His
birthday in time; and He without whose bidding
no day runs its course, in His Incarnation
reserved one day for Himself. He Himself with
the Father precedes all spans of time;but on
this day, issuing from His mother, He stepped
into the tide of the years.
Man's maker was made man, that He, Ruler of the
stars, might nurse at His mother's breasts; that
the Bread might be hungry, the Fountain thirst,
the Light sleep, the Way be tired from the
journey; that the Truth might be accused by
false witnesses, the Judge of the living and the
dead be judged by a mortal judge, Justice be
sentenced by the unjust, the Teacher be beaten
with whips, the Vine be crowned with thorns,the
Foundation be suspended on wood; that Strength
might be made weak, that He who makes well might
be wounded, that Life might die.
St. Augustine
Christmas Day, 396-430
I. The Middle Ages
Deo Gracias
Deo gracias!
Adam lay ibounden
Bounden in a bond;
Four thousand winter
Thought he not to long.
And all was for an appil,
An appil that he tok,
As clerkes finden
Written in their book.
Ne hadde the appil take ben,
The appil take ben,
Ne hadde never our Lady
A ben Hevene Quene.
Blessed be the time
The appil take was.
Therefore we moun singen
Deo gracias!
Anon. (early 15th cent.)
Ther is No Rose
Ther is no rose of swich vertu
As is the rose that bare Jesu.
Alleluia.
For in this rose conteined was
Heaven and erth in litel space.
Res miranda.
By that rose we may wel see
Ther be one God in persons three.
Pares forma.
The aungels sungen the shepherds to:
Gloria in excelsis Deo.
Gaudeamus.
Leave we all this werldly mirth,
And follow we this joyful birth.
Transeamus.
Anon. (14th cent.)
As Dew in Aprille
I sing of a maiden
That is makeles,
King of alle kinges
To here sone she ches.
He cam also stille
Ther his moder was
As dew in Aprille
That falleth on the gras.
He cam also stille
To his moderes bowr
As dew in Aprille
That falleth on the flour.
He cam also stille
Ther his moder lay
As dew in Aprille
That falleth on the spray.
Moder and maiden
Was never non but she:
Well may swich a lady
Godes moder be.
Anon. (15th cent.)
Grimestone's Lullaby
Ihesu, suete sone dere,
In porful bed thu list nuu here,
And that me grevet sore;
For this credel is als a bere,* [manger;bier]
Ox and Asse ben thi fere--
Wepen may i ther fore.
Ihesu, suete, be nout wroth,
I have neither clut ne cloth
The inne for to folde;
I ne have but a clut of a lappe,
Therfore ley thi feet to my pappe,
And kep the fro the colde.
Cold the taket, i may wel se,
For love of man it mot be
The to suffren wo,
For bet it is thu suffre this
Than man for-bere hevene blis--
Thu most him bien* ther-to. [bring]
Sythen it most nedes that thu be ded
To saven man fro the qued,* [pit]
Thi suete wil be do.
But let me nouth duellen her to longe;
After thi det me underfonge
To ben for evermo. Amen.
John Grimestone, 1372
II. The Sixteenth Century
The Burning Babe
As I in hoarie Winters night
Stoode shivering in the snow,
Surpris'd I was with sodaine heate,
Which made my hart to glow;
And lifting up a fearfull eye,
To view what fire was neare,
A pretty Babe all burning bright
Did in the ayre appeare;
Who scorched with excessive heate,
Such floods of teares did shed,
As though his floods should quench his flames,
Which with his teares were fed:
Alas (quoth he) but newly borne,
In fierie heates I frie,
Yet none approach to warme their harts,
Or feele my fire, but I;
My faultlesse breast the furnace is,
The fuell wounding thornes:
Love is the fire, and sighs the smoake,
The ashes, shame and scornes;
The fewell Justice layeth on,
And Mercie blowes the coales,
The metall in this furnace wrought,
Are mens defiled soules:
For which, as now on fire I am
To work them to their good,
So will I melt into a bath,
To wash them in my blood.
With this he vanisht out of sight,
And swiftly shrunk away,
And straight I called unto minde,
That it was Christmasse day.
Robert Southwell (d. 1595)
New Prince, New Pomp
Beholde a silly tender Babe,
In freesing Winter night;
In homely manger trembling lies,
Alas a pitteous sight:
The Innes are full, no man will yeeld
This little Pilgrime bed;
But forc'd he is with silly beasts,
In crib to shrowd his head.
Despise not him for lying there,
First what he is enquire:
An oriet pearle is often found,
In depth of dirty mire,
Waigh not his Crib, his wooden dish,
Nor beasts that by him feede:
Waigh not his Mothers poore attire,
Nor Josephs simple weede.
This stable is a Princes Court,
The Crib his chaire of state:
The beasts are parcell of his pompe,
The wooden dish his plate.
The persons in the poore attire,
His royall livories weare,
This Prince himself is come from heaven,
This pompe is prised there.
With joy approach o Christian wight,
Do homage to thy King;
And highly prise this humble pomp,
Which he from heaven doth bring.
Robert Southwell
The Nativitie of Christ
Beholde the father, is his daughters sonne:
The bird that built the nest, is hatched
therein:
The olde of yeares, an houre hath not out runne:
Eternall life, to live doth now beginne.
The word is dumme: The mirth of heaven doth
weepe:
Might feeble is: and force doth faintly creepe.
O dying soules, behold your living spring:
O dasled eyes, behold your sonne of grace:
Dull eares, attend what word this word doth
bring:
Up heavie hartes: with joye your joye embrace.
From death, from darke, from deafnesse, from
dispaires:
This life, this light, this word, this joy
repaires.
Gift better than himselfe, God doth not know:
Gift better than his God, no man can see:
This gift doth here the gever geven bestow:
Gift to this gift let each receiver bee.
God is my gift, himselfe he freely gave me:
God's gift am I, and none but God shall have me.
Man altered was by sinne from man to beast:
Beastes foode is haye, haye is all mortall
flesh:
Now God is fleshe, and lies in Manger prest:
As haye, the brutest sinner to refresh.
O happie field wherein this fodder grew,
Whose tast, doth us from beasts to men renew.
Robert Southwell
III. The Seventeenth Century
Sonnets from La Corona
Annunciation
Salvation to all that will is nigh,
That All, which alwayes is All every where,
Which cannot sinne, and yet all sinnes must
beare,
Which cannot die, yet cannot chuse but die,
Loe, faithfull Virgin, yeelds himselfe to lye
In prison, in thy wombe; and though he there
Can take no sinne, nor thou give, yet he'will
weare
Taken from thence, flesh, which deaths force may
trie.
Ere by the spheares time was created, thou
Wast in his minde, who is they Sonne, and
Brother,
Whom thou conceiv'st, conceiv'd; yea thou art
now
Thy Makers maker, and thy Fathers mother,
Thou'hast light in darke; and shutst in little
roome,
Immensity cloysterd in thy deare wombe.
Nativity
Immensity cloistered in thy dear womb,
Now leaves His well-beloved imprisonment,
There he hath made Himself to His intent
Weak enough, now into our world to come;
But oh, for thee, for Him, hath the Inn no room?
Yet lay Him in this stall, and from the Orient,
Stars, and wisemen will travel to prevent
The effect of Herod's jealous general doom.
Seest thou, my soul, with thy faith's eyes, how
He
Which fills all place, yet none holds Him, doth
lie?
Was not His pity towards thee wondrous high,
That would have need to be pitied by thee?
Kiss Him, and with Him into Egypt go,
With His kind mother, who partakes thy woe.
John Donne, 1608
Christmas
All after pleasures as I rid one day,
My horse and I, both tir'd, bodie and minde,
With full crie of affections, quite astray;
I took up in the next inne I could finde.
There when I came, whom found I but my deare,
My dearest Lord, expecting till the grief
Of pleasures brought me to him, readie there
To be all passengers most sweet relief?
O Thou, whose glorious, yet contracted light,
Wrapt in nights mantle, stole into a manger;
Since my dark soul and brutish is thy right,
To Man of all beasts be not thou a stranger:
Furnish & deck my soul, that thou mayst have
A better lodging, then a rack, or grave.
The shepherds sing; and shall I silent be?
My God, no hymne for thee?
My soul's a shepherd too; a flock it feeds
Of thoughts, and words, and deeds.
The pasture is thy word: the streams, thy grace
Enriching all the place.
Shepherd and flock shall sing, and all my powers
Out-sing the day-light houres.
Then we will chide the sunne for letting night
Take up his place and right:
We sing one common Lord; wherefore he should
Himself the candle hold.
I will go searching, till I finde a sunne
Shall stay, till we have done;
A willing shiner, that shall shine as gladly,
As frost-nipt sunnes look sadly.
Then we will sing, and shine all our own day,
And one another pay:
His beams shall cheer my breast, and both so
twine,
Till ev'n his beams sing, and my musick shine.
George Herbert (1593-1633)
Christ's Nativity
Awake, glad heart! get up, and Sing,
It is the Birth-day of thy King,
Awake! awake!
The sun doth shake
Light from his locks, and all the way
Breathing perfumes, doth spice the day.
Awak, awak! heark, how the wood rings,
Winds whisper, and the busie springs
A consort make;
Awake, awake!
Man is their high-priest, and should rise
To offer up the sacrifice.
I would I were some Bird, or Star,
Flutt'ring in woods, or lifted far
Above this Inne
And Rode of sin!
Then either Star, or Bird, should be
Shining, or singing still to thee.
I would I had in my best part
Fit Roomes for thee! or that my heart
Were so clean as
Thy manger was!
But I am all filth, and obscene,
Yet, if thou wilt, thou canst make clean.
Sweet Jesu! will then; Let no more
This Leper haunt, and soyl thy door,
Cure him, Ease him
O release him!
And let once more by mystick birth
The Lord of life be borne in Earth.
Henry Vaughan (1621-1695)
In the Holy Nativity of Our Lord God: A Hymn
Sung as By the Shepherds
The Hymn
Chorus. Come we shepheards whose blest Sight
Hath mett love's Noon in Nature's night;
Come lift we up our loftyer Song
And wake the SUN that lyes too long.
To all our world of well-stoln joy 5
He slept; and dream't of no such thing.
While we found out Heavn's fairer ey
And Kis't the Cradle of our KING.
Tell him He rises now, too late
To show us ought worth looking at. 10
Tell him we now can show Him more
Then He e're show'd to mortall Sight;
Then he Himselfe e're saw before;
Which to be seen needes not His light.
Tell him, Tityrus, where th'hast been 15
Tell him, Thyrsis, what th'hast seen.
Tityrus. Gloomy night embrac't the Place
Where The Noble Infant lay.
The BABE look't up and shew'd his Face;
In spite of Darknes, it was DAY.
20
It was THY day, SWEET! and did rise
Not from the EAST, but from thine EYES.
Chorus It was THY day, Sweet
Thyrs. WINTER chidde aloud; and sent
The angry North to wage his warres. 25
The North forgott his feirce Intent;
And left perfumes in stead of scarres.
By those sweet eyes' persuasive powrs
Where he mean't frost, he scatter'd flowrs.
Chorus By those sweet eyes' 30
Both. We saw thee in thy baulmy Nest,
Young dawn of our eternall DAY!
We saw thine eyes break from their EASTE
And chase the trembling shades away.
We saw thee; and we blest the sight 35
We saw thee by thine own sweet light.
Tity. Poor WORLD (said I.) what wilt thou doe
To entertain this starry STRANGER?
Is this the best thou canst bestow?
A cold, and not too cleanly, manger? 40
Contend, ye powres of heav'n and earth.
To fitt a bed for this huge birthe.
Chorus. Contend ye powers
Thyr. Proud world, said I; cease your contest
And let the MIGHTY BABE alone. 45
The Phoenix builds the Phoenix' nest.
LOVE'S architecture is his own.
The BABE whose birth embraves this morn,
Made his own bed e're he was born.
Chorus. The BABE whose 50
Tit. I saw the curl'd drops, soft and slow,
Come hovering o're the place's head;
Offring their whitest sheets of snow
To furnish the fair INFANT'S bed
Forbear, said I; be not too bold. 55
Your fleece is white But t'is too cold.
Chorus. Forbear, sayd I
Thyr. I saw the obsequious SERAPHIMS
Their rosy fleece of fire bestow.
For well they now can spare their wings 60
Since HEAVN itself lyes here below.
Well done, said I: but are you sure
Your down so warm, will passe for pure?
Chorus. Well done sayd I
Tit. No no. your KING'S not yet to seeke 65
Where to repose his Royall HEAD
See see, how soon his new-bloom'd CHEEK
Twixt's mother's brests is gone to bed.
Sweet choise, said wel no way but so
Not to ly cold, yet sleep in snow. 70
Chorus. Sweet choise, said we.
Both. We saw thee in thy baulmy nest,
Bright dawn of our eternall Day!
We saw thine eyes break from their EAST
And chase the trembling shades away. 75
We saw thee: and we blest the sight.
We saw thee, by thine own sweet light.
Chorus. We saw thee, &c.
Full Chorus. Wellcome, all WONDERS in one sight!
Eternity shutt in a span. 80
Sommer in Winter. Day in Night.
Heaven in earth, and GOD in MAN.
Great little one! whose all-embracing birth
Lifts earth to heaven, stoopes heav'n to earth.
WELLCOME. Though nor to gold nor silk. 85
To more than Caesar's birthright is;
Two sister-seas of Virgin-Milk,
With many a rarely-temper'd kisse
That breathes at once both MAID and MOTHER,
Warmes in the one, cooles in the other. 90
WELCOME, though not to those gay flyes.
Guilded ith' Beames of earthly kings;
Slippery soules in smiling eyes;
But to poor Shepheards, home-spun things:
Whose Wealth's their flock; whose witt, to be 95
Well read in their simplicity.
Yet when young April's husband showrs
Shall blesse the fruitfull Maja's bed
We'l bring the First-born of her flowrs
To kisse thy FEET and crown thy HEAD. 100
To thee, dread Lamb! whose love must keep
The shepheards, more then they the sheep.
To THEE, meek Majesty! soft KING
Of simple GRACES and sweet LOVES.
Each of us his lamb will bring 105
Each his pair of sylver Doves;
Till burnt at last in fire of Thy fair eyes,
Our selves become our own best SACRIFICE.
Richard Crashaw (1612/13-1649)
IV. The Twentieth Century
Journey of the Magi
'A cold coming we had of it,
Just the worst time of the year
For a journey, and such a long journey:
The ways deep and the weather sharp,
The very dead of winter.'
And the camels galled, sore-footed, refractory,
Lying down in the melting snow.
There were times we regretted
The summer palaces on slopes, the terraces,
And the silken girls bringing sherbet.
Then the camel men cursing and grumbling
And running away, and wanting their liquor and
women,
And the night-fires going out, and the lack of
shelters,
And the cities hostile and the towns unfriendly
And the villages dirty and charging high prices:
A hard time we had of it.
At the end we preferred to travel all night,
Sleeping in snatches,
With the voices singing in our ears, saying
That this was all folly.
Then at dawn we came down to a temperate valley,
Wet below the snow line, smelling of vegetation,
With a running stream and a water-mill beating
the darkness,
And three trees on the low sky.
And an old white horse galloped away in the
meadow.
Then we came to a tavern with vine-leaves over
the lintel,
Six hands at an open door dicing for pieces of
silver,
And feet kicking empty wineskins.
But there was no information, and so we
continued
And arrived at evening, not a moment too soon
Finding the place; it was (you may say)
satisfactory.
All this was a long time ago, I remember,
And I would do it again, but set down
This set down
This: were we led all that way for
Birth or Death? There was a Birth, certainly,
We had evidence and no doubt. I had seen birth
and death,
But had thought they were different; this Birth
was
Hard and bitter agony for us, like death, our
death.
We returned to our places, these Kingdoms,
But no longer at ease here, in the old
dispensation,
With an alien people clutching their gods.
I should be glad of another death.
T. S. Eliot (1888-1965) |
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