The Child Of The Maid

A poem by William Arthur Dunkerley

On Christmas Day The Child was born,
On Christmas Day in the morning;--
--To tread the long way, lone and lorn,
--To wear the bitter crown of thorn,
--To break the heart by man's sins torn,
--To die at last the Death of Scorn.
For this The Child of The Maid was born,
On Christmas Day in the morning.

But that first day when He was born,
Among the cattle and the corn,
The sweet Maid-Mother wondering,
And sweetly, deeply, pondering
The words that in her heart did ring,
Unto her new-born king did sing,--

"My baby, my baby,
My own little son,
Whence come you,
Where go you,
My own little one?
Whence come you?

Ah now, unto me all alone
That wonder of wonders is properly known.
Where go you?
Ah, that now, 'tis only He knows,
Who sweetly on us, dear, such favour bestows.
In us, dear, this day is some great work begun,--
Ah me, little son dear, I would it were done!
I wonder ... I wonder ...
And--wish--it--were--done!

"O little, little feet, dears.
So curly, curly sweet!--
How will it be with you, dears,
When all your work's complete?
O little, little hands, dears,
That creep about my breast!--
What great things you will do, dears,
Before you lie at rest!
O softest little head, dear,
It shall have crown of gold,
For it shall have great honour
Before the world grows old!
O sweet, white, soft round body,
It shall sit upon a throne!
My little one, my little one,
Thou art the Highest's son!
All this the angel told me,
And so I'm sure it's true,
For he told me who was coming,--
And that sweet thing is YOU."

On Christmas Day The Child was born,
On Christmas Day in the morning;--
--He trod the long way, lone and lorn,
--He wore the bitter crown of thorn,
--His hands and feet and heart were torn,
--He died at last the Death of Scorn.
But through His coming Death was slain,
That you and I might live again.

For this The Child of The Maid was born,
On Christmas Day in the morning.