Poem: Phillip Brooks

The earth has grown old with its burden of care,
But at Christmas it always is young.
The heart of the jewel burns lustrous and fair,
And its soul full of music breaks forth on the air,
when the song of the angels is sung.

It is coming, old earth it is coming tonight!
On the snowflakes which cover thy sod,
The feet of the Christ Child fall gentle and white,
And the voice of the Christ Child tells out with delight
that we are the children of God.

On the sad and the lonely, the wretched and poor,
That voice of the Christ Child shall fall,
And to ev’ry blind wanderer opens the door
Of a hope that he dared not dream of before,
with a sunshine of welcome for all.

The feet of the humblest may walk in the field
Where the feet of the Holiest trod;
This is the marvel to mortals revealed,
When the silvery trumpets of Christmas have pealed:
that we are the children of God.