This Christmas-time my son will come,
God willing, to the Holy Place
And by the manger’s little room
Will bend his knee and bow his face,
Eager, with shepherds and with kings,
For to behold the Holy Things.
The very child I made will see,
God willing, little Bethlehem,
The Garden of the Agony,
Olivet and Jerusalem
And climb to Calvary’s sacred hill —
Ah, but the world is Calvary still!
My own son’s feet the dust shall press,
God willing, where the Holy Feet
Passed on His Father’s business:
And some high room above the street
Shall stir a memory of that Feast
Where He himself was Eucharist.
Yea, by the Gate called Beautiful
My son, my little son, shall go
And bathe in Siloam’s healing pool.
Yet if God will not have it so
At least my son, in His high Name,
Has travelled towards Jerusalem.
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