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42 The Book of Praise.
Though rude winds usher thee, sweet day,
Though clouds thy face deform, Though nature's grace is swept away Before thy sleety storm ; EVn in thy sombrest wintry vest, Of blessed days thou art most blest.
Nor frigid air nor gloomy morn
Shall check our jubilee ; Bright is the day when Christ was born, No sun need shine but He ; Let roughest storms their coldest blow, With love of Him our hearts shall glow.
Inspired with high and holy thought,
Fancy is on the wing ; It seems as to mine ear it brought Those voices carolling, Voices through heaven and earth that ran, Glory to God, good will to man.
I see the shepherds gazing wild At those fair spirits of light; I see them bending o'er the Child With that untold delight Which marks the face of those who view Things but too happy to be true.
There, in the lowly manger laid,
Incarnate God they see ; He stoops to take, through spotless maid, Our frail humanity : Son of high God, creation's Heir, He leaves His Heaven to raise us there.