Christmas-Day, 1878

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Christmas-Day, 1878

I think I might be weary of this day

That comes inevitably every year,

The same when I was young and strong and gay,

The same when I am old and growing sere⁠—

I should grow weary of it every year

But that thou comest to me every day.

I shall grow weary if thou every day

But come to me, Lord of eternal life;

I shall grow weary thus to watch and pray,

For ever out of labour into strife;

Take everlasting house with me, my life,

And I shall be new-born this Christmas-day.

Thou art the Eternal Son, and born no day,

But ever he the Father, thou the Son;

I am his child, but being born alway⁠—

How long, O Lord, how long till it be done?

Be thou from endless years to years the Son⁠—

And I thy brother, new-born every day.