Low burned the lights in a village inn,
Master and servant had gone to rest;
Quiet which hovers when new days begin
Folded thee, Bethlehem, close to its breast.

Cattle all sheltered in yonder rude shed,
Beast nor man felt never a care;
One only needed. The Christ Child’s head
Pillowed itself in a manger bare.

Pardon, O Jesus, our sinful race,
That they gave to Thee such scanty cheer.
Filled were Thy hands with largess of grace,
Men drove Thee out to a stable drear.

We have driven Thee forth, O Jesus blest,
Many a time from our own heart’s gate;
Out in the storm with no place to rest;
Driven Thee out though the hour was late.

’Tis our sins, O Christ Child, ’tis our sin!
That has turned Thee away from our heart’s gate;
They have crowded the rooms of our own heart’s inn.
They, and not we, have made Thee wait.

Out of our hearts on this Christ­mas-tide
We will drive our sin with a whip of cord.
Enter, Christ Child! the door stand wide!
Here make Thy Bethlehem, Jesus, Lord.

Carroll Lund Bates
The Master: A Ro­sa­ry of Chris­tian Verse, 1907