O Bethlem Town Tonight Is Cold

O Beth­lem town to­night is cold

And Beth­lem town is ve­ry dark;

Down tum­bling street

on up­land wold

Stirs nei­ther wife nor pa­tri­arch;

No tra­vel­ers the inn doors seek

Where still the gust stirred sign­boards creak.

The dull

dumb shep­herds of the heath

Are warm be­side their wives in bed;

The mil­dewed man­ger chills be­neath

The wet thatch gap­ing ov­er­head;

The an­cient stars are tired and dim

And no new star an­noun­ces Him.

Or is it that we can­not hear

The least of spir­it­ual songs

And know not some strange joy more near

Than too fa­mil­iar an­gel throngs?

Of Him the great­er is our need

Whose life has dwind­led to a creed.

Because we know the Lord once woke

Unto a far off peo­ple’s pain

We dream

a numb be­wil­dered folk

That He might think to come again

And save

through new en­light­en­ing cares

A world more sor­row­ful than theirs.