A Canticle for Christmas, 1874

Lo ! a pure Maiden, meek and mild,
Yearns to embrace an awful Child !
Those limbs, her tenderest touch might win
Yet thrill they with the God within !

She gazes ! and what doth she see ?
A gleaming Infant on her knee !
She pauses : can she dare to press
That Glory with a fond caress ?

Yet 'tis her flesh : that Form so fair !
Her very blood is bounding there !
The mother's heart the victory won :
It is her God ! it is her Son !

Hers the proud gladness mothers know,
Without a thrill, without a throe ;
And Mary — Mary undefiled,
Claims for her breast that awful Child !