The Corner

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The Mirth of Heaven Doth Weep


Merry Christmas to the readers of this happy Corner–and, by way of a gift, this poem, by St. Robert Southwell. (A Jesuit, Southwell was hanged and quartered by the English authorities in 1592 for practising his Catholicism. He was 31.)

The Nativity of Christ

Behold the father is his daughter’s son,

The bird that built the nest is hatched therein,

The old of years an hour hath not outrun,

Eternal life to live doth now begin,

The Word is dumb, the mirth of heaven doth weep,

Might feeble is, and force doth faintly creep.

O dying souls, behold your living spring;

O dazzled eyes, behold your sun of grace;

Dull ears, attend what word this Word doth bring;

Up, heavy hearts, with joy your joy embrace.

From death, from dark, from deafness, from despairs

This life, this light, this Word, this joy repairs.

Gift better than himself God doth not know;

Gift better than his God no man can see.

This gift doth here the giver given bestow;

Gift to this gift let each receiver be.

God is my gift, himself he freely gave me;

God’s gift am I, and none but God shall have me.

Man altered was by sin from man to beast;

Beast’s food is hay, hay is all mortal flesh.

Now God is flesh and lies in manger pressed

As hay, the brutest sinner to refresh.

O happy field wherein that fodder grew,

Whose taste doth us from beasts to men renew.