It came
upon the midnight clear,
That glorious song of old,
From angels bending near the earth,
To touch their harps of gold;
“Peace on the earth, good will to men,
From Heav’n’s all-gracious King.”
The world in solemn stillness lay,
To hear the angels sing.
Still through the cloven skies they come
With peaceful wings unfurled,
And still their heav’nly music floats
O’er all the weary world;
Above its sad and lowly plains,
They bend on hov’ring wing,
And ever o’er its Babel sounds
The blessed angels sing.
Lyrics by Edmund H. Sears
On this Christmas Day 2017, I stop to ponder the Christmas Story
and wonder at the many mysterious and perhaps hyperbolic accounts found
therein.
from Luke, KJV:
8 And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field,
keeping watch over their flock by night.
9 And, lo, the angel of the
Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and
they were sore afraid.
10 And the angel said unto
them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall
be to all people.
11 For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour,
which is Christ the Lord.
12 And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the babe wrapped
in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger.
13 And suddenly there was with
the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying,
14 Glory to God in the
highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.
 |
| Drawing by William Blake (1757-1827) |
I welcome the appearance of an angel(s). As an old goat
herder, I don’t believe I would be “sore afraid” if I witnessed a choir of
heavenly angels singing in the northern sky outside the barn at Merry
Mount. On the contrary, I think I would pull up
my lawn chair and enjoy the concert.
So tonight, after I feed the goats, I will be vigilant with eyes
and ears, hoping to witness a heavenly choir.
Choirmaster's Burial
He often
would ask us
That, when he died,
After playing so many
To their last rest,
If out of us any
Should here abide,
And it would not task us,
We would with our lutes
Play over him
By his grave-brim
The psalm he liked best -
The one whose sense suits
"Mount Ephraim" -
And perhaps we should seem
To him, in Death's dream,
Like the seraphim.
As soon as I knew
That his spirit was gone
I thought this his due,
And spoke thereupon.
"I think," said the vicar,
"A read service quicker
Than viols out-of-doors
In these frosts and hoars.
That old-fashioned way
Requires a fine day,
And it seems to me
It had better not be."
Hence, that
afternoon,
Though never knew he
That his wish could not be,
To get through it faster
They buried the master
Without any tune.
But 'twas said
that, when
At the dead of next night
The vicar looked out,
There struck on his ken
Thronged roundabout,
Where the frost was graying
The headstoned grass,
A band all in white
Like the saints in church-glass,
Singing and playing
The ancient stave
By the choirmaster's grave.
Such the tenor man
told
When he had grown old.
by Thomas Hardy (1840-1928)
Merry Christmas and may you experience angels today. Rett and I
cuddled our's yesterday: Joy and Eva.
CPW
