Lucy Larcom (1824-1893 / the United States)
IT is His birthday — His, the Holy Child!
And innocent childhood blossoms now anew,
Under the dropping of celestial dew
Into its heart, out of this heavenlier Flower,
That penetrates the lowliest roof-tree bower
With fragrance of an Eden undefiled:
O happy children, praise Him in your mirth, —
The Son of God born with you on the earth!
It is His birthday — His, in whom our youth
Becomes immortal. Nothing good, or sweet,
Or beautiful, or needful to complete
The being that He shares, shall suffer blight;
All that in us His Father can delight,
He saves, He makes eternal as His truth.
Praise Him for one another, loyal friends!
The friendship He awakens never ends.
It is His birthday — and this world of ours
Is a new earth, since He has dwelt therein;
Is even as heaven, since One Life without sin
Made it a home. His voice is in the air;
His face looks forth from beauty everywhere;
His breath is sweetness at the soul of flowers;
And in Him — joy beyond all joy of these —
Man wakes to glorious possibilities.
It is His birthday — and our birthday, too!
Humanity was one long dream of Him,
Until He came: with fitful glow, and dim,
Tile altars heavenward smoked from vague desire,
Despair half stifling aspiration's fire.
He is man's lost ideal, shining through
This life of ours, whereinto floweth His, —
God, interblent with human destinies.
It is His birthday- His, the only One
Who ever made life's meaning wholly plain;
Dawn is He to our night! No longer vain
And purposeless our onward-struggling years;
The hope He bringeth overfloods our fears:
Now do we know the Father through the Son!
O earth, O heart, be glad on this glad morn!
God is with man! Life, Life to us is born!
Comments about this poem (His Birthday by Lucy Larcom )
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