The sun methinks rose rosy-red
⁠On that great New Year's Day,
When Blood was in the cradle shed
⁠Where Mary's Darling lay.

The lark, uprising with the sun,
⁠Was silent on the wing;
The nightingale, when day was done,
⁠Forgot her song to sing.

​A holy silence reigned around,
⁠And hushed was every voice,
When in the crib the Cross was found,
⁠The Infant-Victim's choice.

As moonbeam on a mountain-mere
⁠The Mother's face was white;
Her eyes were stars, and every tear
⁠Gave lustre to their light.

Methinks a blushing moon looked down
⁠Upon that manger-bed,
And wove a mystic glory-crown
⁠Around the Sleeper's head.

​The silence issues in a song,
⁠It rises and it swells;
E'en than the lark's more blithe and strong,
⁠Sweeter than Philomel's,
His Church's anthem loud and long
⁠The Victim's triumph tells.