O Beth­lem town to­night is cold,
And Beth­lem town is ve­ry dark;
Down tum­bling street, on up­land wold
Stirs nei­ther wife nor pa­tri­arch;
No tra­vel­ers the inn doors seek
Where still the gust stirred sign­boards creak.

The dull, dumb shep­herds of the heath
Are warm be­side their wives in bed;
The mil­dewed manger chills be­neath
The wet thatch gap­ing ov­er­head;
The an­cient stars are tired and dim,
And no new star an­noun­ces Him.

Or is it that we can­not hear
The least of spi­rit­ual songs,
And know not some strange joy more near
Than too fa­mil­iar an­gel throngs?
Of Him the great­er is our need
Whose life has dwind­led to a creed.

Because we know the Lord once woke
Unto a far off peo­ple’s pain,
We dream, a numb be­wil­dered folk,
That He might think to come again
And save, through new en­light­en­ing cares,
A world more sor­row­ful than theirs.