The Life and Words of GK Chesterton (5 page)

When the first Christmas presents came, the straw where Christ was rolled

Smelt sweeter than their frankincense, burnt brighter than their gold,

And a wise man said, "We will not give; the thanks would be but cold."

"Nay," said the next, "To all new gifts, to this gift or another,

Bends the high gratitude of God; even as He now, my brother,

Who had a Father for all time, yet thanks Him for a Mother.

"Yet scarce for Him this yellow stone or prickly-smells and sparse.

Who holds the gold heart of the sun that fed these timber bars,

Nor any scentless lily lives for One that smells the stars."

Then spake the third of the Wise Men; the wisest of the three:

"We may not with the widest lives enlarge His liberty,

Whose wings are wider than the world. It is not He, but we.

"We say not He has more to gain, but we have more to lose.

Less gold shall go astray, we say, less gold, if thus we choose,

Go to make harlots of the Greeks and hucksters of the Jews.

"Less clouds before colossal feet redden in the under-light,

To the blind gods from Babylon less incense burn to-night,

To the high beasts of Babylon, whose mouths make mock of right."

Babe of the thousand birthdays, we that are young yet grey,

White with the centuries, still can find no better thing to say,

We that with sects and whims and wars have wasted Christmas Day.

Light Thou Thy censer to Thyself, for all our fires are dim,

Stamp Thou Thine image on our coin, for Caesar's face grows dim,

And a dumb devil of pride and greed has taken hold of him.

We bring Thee back great Christendom, churches and towns and towers.

And if our hands are glad, O God, to cast them down like flowers,

'Tis not that they enrich Thine hands, but they are saved from ours.

Said the Lord God, "Build a house,

Build it in the gorge of death,

Found it in the throats of hell.

Where the lost sea muttereth,

Fires and whirlwinds, build it well."

Laboured sternly flame and wind,

But a little, and they cry,

"Lord, we doubt of this Thy will,

We are blind and murmur why,"

And the winds are murmuring still.

Said the Lord God, "Build a house,

Cleave its treasure from the earth,

With the jarring powers of hell

Strive with formless might and mirth,

Tribes and war-men, build it well."

Then the raw red sons of men

Brake the soil, and lopped the wood,

But a little and they shrill,

"Lord, we cannot view Thy good,"

And the wild men clamour still.

Said the Lord God, "Build a house,

Smoke and iron, spark and steam,

Speak and vote and buy and sell;

Let a new world throb and stream,

Seers and makers, build it well."

Strove the cunning men and strong,

But a little and they cry,

"Lord, mayhap we are but clay,

And we cannot know the why,"

And the wise men doubt to-day.

Yet though worn and deaf and blind,

Force and savage, king and seer

Labour still, they know not why;

At the dim foundation here,

Knead and plough and think and ply.

Till at last, mayhap, hereon,

Fused of passion and accord,

Love its crown and peace its stay

Rise the city of the Lord

That we darkly build to-day.

Great God, that bowest sky and star,

Bow down our towering thoughts to thee,

And grant us in a faltering war

The firm feet of humility.

Lord, we that snatch the swords of flame,

Lord, we that cry about Thy car.

We too are weak with pride and shame,

We too are as our foemen are.

Yea, we are mad as they are mad,

Yea, we are blind as they are blind,

Yea, we are very sick and sad

Who bring good news to all mankind.

The dreadful joy Thy Son has sent

Is heavier than any care;

We find, as Cain his punishment,

Our pardon more than we can bear.

Lord, when we cry Thee far and near

And thunder through all lands unknown

The gospel into every ear,

Lord, let us not forget our own.

Cleanse us from ire of creed or class,

The anger of the idle tings;

Sow in our souls, like living grass,

The laughter of all lowly things.

Then Bernard smiled at me, that I should gaze

But I had gazed already; caught the view,

Faced the unfathomable ray of rays

Which to itself and by itself is true.

Then was my vision mightier than man's speech;

Speech snapt before it like a flying spell;

And memory and all that time can teach

Before that splendid outrage failed and fell.

As when one dreameth and remembereth not

Waking, what were his pleasures or his pains,

With every feature of the dream forgot,

The printed passion of the dream remains:—

Even such am I; within whose thoughts resides

No picture of that sight nor any part

Nor any memory: in whom abides

Only a happiness within the heart,

A secret happiness that soaks the heart

As hills are soaked by slow unsealing snow,

Or secret as that wind without a chart

Whereon did the wild leaves of Sibyl go.

O light uplifted from all mortal knowing,

Send back a little of that glimpse of thee.

That of its glory I may kindle glowing

One tiny spark for all men yet to be.

Passionate peace is in the sky—

And in the snow in silver sealed

The beasts are perfect in the field,

And men seem men so suddenly—

(But take ten swords and ten times ten

And blow the bugle in praising men;

For we are for all men under the sun,

And they are against us every one;

And misers haggle and madmen clutch,

And there is peril in praising much.

And we have the terrible tongues uncurled

That praise the world to the sons of the world.)

The idle humble hill and wood

Are bowed upon the sacred birth,

And for one little hour the earth

Is lazy with the love of good—

(But ready are you, and ready am I,

If the battle blow and the guns go by;

For we are for all men under the sun,

And they are against us every one;

And the men that hate herd all together,

To pride and gold, and the great white feather

And the thing is graven in star and stone

That the men who love are all alone.)

Hunger is hard and time is tough,

But bless the beggars and kiss the kings,

For hope has broken the heart of things,

And nothing was ever praised enough.

(But bold the shield for a sudden swing

And point the sword when you praise a thing,

For we are for all men under the sun,

And they are against us every one;

And mime and merchant, thane and thrall

Hate us because we love them all;

Only till Christmastide go by

Passionate peace is in the sky.)

O God of earth and altar,

Bow down and hear our cry

Our earthly rulers falter,

Our people drift and die;

The walls of gold entomb 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 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.