High in high heaven Our Lady’s throne Beside her Son’s stands up apart: I sit on heaven’s steps alone And hold my king against my heart. Across dark depths she hears your cry; She sees your smile, through worlds of blue Who was a mother, even as I, And loved her Child, as I love you. And to her heart my babe is dear, Because she bore the Babe Divine, And all my soul to hers draws near, And loves Him for the sake of mine! EVENING PRAYER Not to the terrible God, avenging, bright, Whose altars struck their roots in flame and blood, Not to the jealous God, whose merciless might The infamy of unclean years withstood; But to the God who lit the evening star, Who taught the flower to blossom in delight, Who taught His world what love and worship are We pray, we two, to-night. To no vast Presence too immense to love, To no enthronèd King too great to care, To no strange Spirit human needs above We bring our little, intimate, heart-warm prayer; But to the God who is a Father too, The Father who loved and gave His only Son We pray across the cradle, I and you, For ours, our little one! CHRISTMAS HYMN O Christ, born on the holy day, I have no gift to give my King; No flowers grow by my weary way; I have no birthday song to sing. How can I sing Thy name and praise, Who never saw Thy face divine; Who walk in darkness all my days, And see no Eastern stars a-shine? Yet, when their Christmas gifts they bring, How can I leave Thy praise unsung? How stay from homage to the King, And hold a silent, grudging tongue? Lord, I found many a song to sing, And many a humble hymn of praise For Thy great Miracle of Spring, The wonder of the waxing days. When I beheld Thy days and years, Did I not sing Thy pleasant earth? The moons of love, the years of tears, The mysteries of death and birth? Have I not sung with all my soul While soul and song were mine to yield, Thy lightning crown, Thy cloud-control, The dewy clover of Thy field? Have I not loved Thy birds and beasts, Thy streams and woods, Thy sun and shade; Have I not made me holy feasts Of all the beauty Thou hast made? What though my tear-tired eyes, alas! Won never grace Thy face to see? I heard Thy footstep on the grass, Thy voice in every wind-blown tree. No music now I make or win, Yet, Lord, remember I have been The lover of Thy world, wherein I found nought common or unclean. Grown old and blind, I sing no more, Thy saints in heaven sing sweet and strong, Yet take the songs I made of yore For echoes to Thy birthday song. ABSOLUTION