On The Morning of Christ’s Nativity by John Milton, 1629
This is the month, and this the happy morn
Wherein the Son of Heav’ns eternal King,
Of wedded Maid, and Virgin Mother born,
Our great redemption from above did bring;
For so the holy pages once did sing,
That He our deadly forfeit should release,
And with His Father work us a perpetual peace.
That glorious Form, that Light unsufferable,
And that far-beaming blaze of Majesty,
Wherewith He wont at Heaven’s high Councel-Table
To sit the midst of Trinal Unity,
He laid aside: and here with us to be,
Forsook the courts of everlasting day,
And chose with us a darksome house of mortal Clay.
Say heav’nly Muse, shall not thy sacred vein
Afford a present to the Infant God ?
Hast thou no vers, no hymn, or solemn strein,
To welcome him to this his new abode,
Now while the Heav’n, by the Suns team untrod,
Hath took no print of the approching light,
And all the spangled host keep watch in squadrons bright?
See how from far upon the Eastern rode
The Star-led Wisards haste with odours sweet:
O run, prevent them with thy humble ode,
And lay it lowly at His blessed feet;
Have thou the honour first, thy Lord to greet,
And join thy voice unto the angel Quire,
From out His secret Altar toucht with hallow’d fire.