The snows shall pass from our graves away,
And you from the earth, remember;
And the flowers of a bright, eternal May,
Shall follow earth's December.
When you think of us think not of the tomb
Where you laid us down in sorrow;
But look aloft, and beyond earth's gloom,
And wait for the great to-morrow.
And the pontiff, Night, with his star-stole on,
Whispereth soft and low:
Requiescat! Requiescat!
Peace! Peace! to every one
For whom we grieve this Christmas eve,
In their graves beneath the snow.
The stars in the far-off heaven
Have long since struck eleven!
And hark! from temple and from tower,
Soundeth time's grandest midnight hour,
Blessed by the Saviour's birth,
And night putteth off the sable stole,
Symbol of sorrow and sign of dole,
For one with many a starry gem,
To honor the Babe of Bethlehem,
Who comes to men the King of them,
Yet comes without robe or diadem,
And all turn towards the holy east,
To hear the song of the Christmas feast.
Four thousand years earth waited,
Four thousand years men prayed,
Four thousand years the nations sighed,
That their King so long delayed.
The prophets told His coming,
The saintly for Him sighed,
And the star of the Babe of Bethlehem
Shone o'er them when they died.
Their faces towards the future,
They longed to hail the light
That in the after centuries
Would rise on Christmas night.
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