The Life and Words of GK Chesterton by Wyatt North Read Free Book Online

us,
    The swords of scorn divide,
    Take not thy thunder from us,
    But take away our pride.
     
    From all that terror teaches,
    From lies of tongue and pen,
    From all the easy speeches
    That comfort cruel men,
    From sale and profanation
    Of honour and the sword,
    From sleep and from damnation,
    Deliver us, good Lord!
     
    Tie in a living tether
    The prince and priest and thrall,
    Bind all our lives together,
    Smite us and save us all;
    In ire and exultation
    Aflame with faith, and free,
    Lift up a living nation,
    A single sword to thee.

The Nativity

The thatch on the roof was as golden,
    Though dusty the straw was and old,
    The wind had a peal as of trumpets,
    Though blowing and barren and cold,
    The mother's hair was a glory
    Though loosened and torn,
    For under the eaves in the gloaming
    A child was born.
     
    Have a myriad children been quickened.
    Have a myriad children grown old,
    Grown gross and unloved and embittered,
    Grown cunning and savage and cold?
    God abides In a terrible patience,
    Unangered, unworn,
    And again for the child that was squandered
    A child is born.
     
    What know we of æons behind us,
    Dim dynasties lost long ago,
    Huge empires, like dreams unremembered,
    Huge cities for ages laid low?
    This at least—that with blight and with blessing
    With flower and with thorn,
    Love was there, and his cry was among them,
    "A child is born."
     
    Though the darkness be noisy with systems,
    Dark fancies that fret and disprove,
    Still the plumes stir around us, above us
    The wings of the shadow of love:
    Oh! princes and priests, have ye seen it
    Grow pale through your scorn.
    Huge dawns sleep before us, deep changes,
    A child is born.
     
    And the rafters of toil still are gilded
    With the dawn of the star of the heart,
    And the wise men draw near in the twilight,
    Who are weary of learning and art,
    And the face of the tyrant is darkened.
    His spirit is torn,
    For a new King is enthroned; yea, the sternest,
    A child is born.
     
    And the mother still joys for the whispered
    First stir of unspeakable things,
    Still feels that high moment unfurling
    Red glory of Gabriel's wings.
    Still the babe of an hour is a master
    Whom angels adorn,
    Emmanuel, prophet, anointed,
    A child is born.
     
    And thou, that art still in thy cradle,
    The sun being crown for thy brow.
    Make answer, our flesh, make an answer,
    Say, whence art thou come—who art thou?
    Art thou come back on earth for our teaching
    To train or to warn—?
    Hush—how may we know?—knowing only
    A child is born.