Silent, to-night, o'er Judah's hills
Bend low the angel throng,
No heavenly music fills the air
Exultantly with song;
Yet, close above the sin-scarred earth,
Broods still the Love Divine,
And through the darkness, as of old,
The stars of pity shine.
Silent, to-night, is Bethlehem:
Along the hushèd ways
No eager feet of worshippers,
No melodies of praise;
Yet, in the quietness that fills
The waiting hearts of men,
The ancient miracle of hope
Is wrought, to-night, again.
O holy Christ! to whom, of old,
The wondering shepherds came,
The light they sought with flaming joy
We seek in contrite shame;
And though men strive, we dare to hope
That Thou again art born,
For, through the night of our despair,
Behold! Thy star of morn!