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Poem: Upon Christ His Birth


Strange news! a city full? will none give way
To lodge a guest that comes not every day?
No inn, nor tavern void? yet I descry
One empty place alone, where we may lie:
In too much fullness is some want: but where?
Men's empty hearts: let's ask for lodging there.
But if they not admit us, then we'll say
Their hearts, as well as inns, are made of clay.

- Sir John Suckling
Indexing:

Posts from This Journal by “hymnary” Tag

  • Eleventh Sunday after Trinity

    (Prayer requests, anyone?) Oh, the delights, the heavenly joys, The glories of the place, Where Jesus sheds the brightest beams Of His…

  • Tenth Sunday after Trinity

    There is a land of pure delight, where saints immortal reign; infinite day excludes the night, and pleasures banish pain. There everlasting spring…

  • Ninth Sunday after Trinity

    (Prayer requests?) What am I, and where am I? Strange myself and paths appear; Scarce can lift a thought on high, Or drop one heart feeling tear.…