Hymn For Christmas-Day (Hymnus VIII. Kalendas Ianuarias)

Hymnus VIII. Kalendas Ianuarias             Quid est, quod artum circulum         sol iam recurrens deserit?         Christusne terris nascitur,         qui lucis auget tramitem?             Heu quam fugacem gratiam         festina volvebat dies,         quam pene subductam facem         sensim recisa extinxerat!             Caelum nitescat laetius,         gratetur et gaudens humus,         scandit gradatim denuo         iubar priores lineas.             Emerge dulcis pusio,         quem mater edit castitas,         parens et expers coniugis,         mediator et duplex genus.             Ex ore quamlibet Patris         sis ortus et verbo editus,         tamen paterno in pectore         sophia callebas prius.             Quae prompta caelum condidit,         caelum diemque et cetera,         virtute verbi effecta sunt         haec cuncta: nam verbum Deus.             Sed ordinatis seculis,         rerumque digesto statu         fundator ipse et artifex         permansit in Patris sinu,             donec rotata annalium         transvolverentur milia,         atque ipse peccantem diu         dignatus orbera viseret.             Nam caeca vis mortalium         venerans inanes nenias         vel aera vel saxa algida,         vel ligna credebat Deum.             Haec dum sequuntur, perfidi         praedonis in ius venerant,         et mancipatam fumido         vitam barathro inmerserant:             Stragem sed istam non tulit         Christus cadentum gentium         inpune ne forsan sui         Patris periret fabrica.             Mortale corpus induit,         ut excitato corpore         mortis catenam frangeret         hominemque portaret Patri.             Hic ille natalis dies,         quo te creator arduus         spiravit et limo indidit         sermone carnem glutinans.             Sentisne, virgo nobilis,         matura per fastidia         pudoris intactum decus         honore partus crescere?             O quanta rerum gaudia         alvus pudica continet,         ex qua novellum seculum         procedit et lux aurea!             Vagitus ille exordium         vernantis orbis prodidit,         nam tunc renatus sordidum         mundus veternum depulit.             Sparsisse tellurem reor         rus omne densis floribus,         ipsasque arenas syrtium         fragrasse nardo et nectare.             Te cuncta nascentem puer         sensere dura et barbara,         victusque saxorum rigor         obduxit herbam cotibus.             Iam mella de scopulis fluunt,         iam stillat ilex arido         sudans amomum stipite,         iam sunt myricis balsama.             O sancta praesepis tui,         aeterne rex, cunabula,         populisque per seclum sacra         mutis et ipsis credita.             Adorat haec brutum pecus         indocta turba scilicet,         adorat excors natio,         vis cuius in pastu sita est.             Sed cum fideli spiritu         concurrat ad praesepia         pagana gens et quadrupes,         sapiatque quod brutum fuit:             Negat patrum prosapia         perosa praesentem Deum:         credas venenis ebriam         furiisve lymphatam rapi.             Quid prona per scelus ruis?         agnosce, si quidquam tibi         mentis resedit integrae,         ducem tuorum principum.             Hunc, quem latebra et obstetrix,         et virgo feta, et cunulae         et inbecilla infantia         regem dederunt gentibus,             peccator intueberis         celsum coruscis nubibus,         deiectus ipse et inritus         plangens reatum fletibus:             Cum vasta signum bucina         terris cremandis miserit,         et scissus axis cardinem         mundi ruentis solverit:             Insignis ipse et praeminens         meritis rependet congrua,         his lucis usum perpetis,         illis gehennam et tartarum.             Iudaea tunc fulmen crucis         experta, qui sit, senties,         quem te furoris praesule         mors hausit et mox reddidit.     Hymn For Christmas-Day         Why doth the sun re-orient take         A wider range, his limits break?         Lo! Christ is born, and o'er earth's night         Shineth from more to more the light!         Too swiftly did the radiant day         Her brief course run and pass away:         She scarce her kindly torch had fired         Ere slowly fading it expired.         Now let the sky more brightly beam,         The earth take up the joyous theme:         The orb a broadening pathway gains         And with its erstwhile splendour reigns.         Sweet babe, of chastity the flower,         A virgin's blest mysterious dower!         Rise in Thy twofold nature's might:         Rise, God and man to reunite!         Though by the Father's will above         Thou wert begot, the Son of Love,         Yet in His bosom Thou didst dwell,         Of Wisdom the eternal Well;         Wisdom, whereby the heavens were made         And light's foundations first were laid:         Creative Word! all flows from Thee!         The Word is God eternally.         For though with process of the suns         The ordered whole harmonious runs,         Still the Artificer Divine         Leaves not the Father's inmost shrine.         The rolling wheels of Time had passed         O'er their millennial journey vast,         Before in judgment clad He came         Unto the world long steeped in shame.         The purblind souls of mortals crass         Had trusted gods of stone and brass,         To things of nought their worship paid         And senseless blocks of wood obeyed.         And thus employed, they fell below         The sway of man's perfidious foe:         Plunged in the smoky sheer abyss         They sank bereft of their true bliss.         But that sore plight of ruined man         Christ's pity could not lightly scan:         Nor let God's building nobly wrought         Ingloriously be brought to nought.         He wrapped Him in our fleshly guise,         That from the tomb He might arise,         And man released from death's grim snare         Home to His Father's bosom bear.         This is the day of Thy dear birth,         The bridal of the heaven and earth,         When the Creator breathed on Thee         The breath of pure humanity.         Ah! glorious Maid, dost thou not guess         What guerdon thy chaste soul shall bless,         How by thy ripening pangs is bought         An honour greater than all thought?         O what a load of joy untold         Thy womb inviolate doth hold!         Of thee a golden age is born,         The brightness of the earth's new morn!         Hearken! doth not the infant's wail         The universal springtide hail?         For now the world re-born lays by         Its gloomy, frost-bound apathy.         Methinks in all her rustic bowers         The earth is spread with clustering flowers:         Odours of nard and nectar sweet         E'en o'er the sands of Syrtes fleet.         All places rough and deserts wild         Have felt from far Thy coming, Child:         Rocks to Thy gentle empire bow         And verdure clothes the mountain brow.         Sweet honey from the boulder leaps:         The sere and leafless oak-bough weeps         A strange rich attar: tamarisks too         Of balsam pure distil the dew.         Blessd for ever, cradle dear,         The lowly stall, the cavern drear!         Men to this shrine, Eternal King,         With dumb brutes adoration bring.         The ox and ass in homage low         Obedient to their Maker bow:         Bows too the unlearn'd heartless crowd         Whose minds the sensual feast doth cloud.         Though, by the faithful Spirit impelled,         Shepherds and brutes, unreasoning held,         Yea, folk that did in darkness dwell         Discern their God in His poor cell:         Yet children of the sacred race         Blindly abhor the Incarnate grace:         By philtres you might deem them lulled         Or by some bacchic phrenzy dulled.         Why headlong thus to ruin stride?         If aught of soundness in you bide,         Behold in Him the Lord divine         Of all your patriarchal line.         Mark you the dim-lit cave, the Maid,         The humble nurse, the cradle laid,         The helpless infancy forlorn:         Yet thus the Gentiles' King was born!         Ah sinner, thou shalt one day see         This Child in dreadful majesty,         See Him in glorious clouds descend,         While thou thy guilty heart shalt rend.         Vain all thy tears, when loud shall sound         The trump, when flames shall scorch the ground,         When from its hinge the cloven world         Is loosed, in horrid tumult hurled.         Then throned on high, the Judge of all         Shall mortals to their reckoning call:         To these shall grant the prize of light,         To those Gehenna's gloomy night.         Then, Israel, shalt thou learn at length         The Cross hath, as the lightning, strength:         Doomed by thy wrath, He now is Lord,         Whom Death once grasped but soon restored.