Christmas Eve 1914

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Silent, to-night, o'er Judah's hills
  Bend low the angel throng,
No heavenly music fills the air
  Exultantly with song;
Yet, close above the sin-scarred earth,
  Broods still the Love Divine,
And through the darkness, as of old,
  The stars of pity shine.


Silent, to-night, is Bethlehem:
  Along the hushèd ways
No eager feet of worshippers,
  No melodies of praise;
Yet, in the quietness that fills
  The waiting hearts of men,
The ancient miracle of hope
  Is wrought, to-night, again.


O holy Christ! to whom, of old,
  The wondering shepherds came,
The light they sought with flaming joy
  We seek in contrite shame;
And though men strive, we dare to hope
  That Thou again art born,
For, through the night of our despair,
  Behold! Thy star of morn!

© Eugene Field