Slow, dusty miles to Bethlehem,
But inward singing all the way;
No lodging in the worldly inn,
But humble rest on wind-sweet hay.
A travail prophesied of old
Beneath the ancient, golden sun,
But only homespun swaddling clothes
For sacred kinghood just begun.
With shepherds' joy and Magi's love,
With softness of a mother's prayer—
What need for matter's pillowed ease
To cradle destiny so fair?
And so when faint from journeying,
I pause for surcease in the night,
And matter offers no repose
In mortal manors burning bright;
Shall I find peace in meek desire,
Untainted by ambitious schemes?
And has the Comforter a star
To shine upon my stabled dreams?
Yes, when I turn to lowliness
From prideful inns that have no room,
Love will embrace my infant hope
And glorify the manger gloom.
