There was a gentle hostler
  (And blessed be his name!)
He opened up the stable
  The night Our Lady came.
Our Lady and Saint Joseph,
  He gave them food and bed,
And Jesus Christ has given him
  A glory round his head.

      So let the gate swing open
       However poor the yard,
      Lest weary people visit you
       And find their passage barred;
      Unlatch the door at midnight
       And let your lantern's glow
      Shine out to guide the traveler's feet
       To you across the snow.

There was a courteous hostler
  (He is in Heaven to-night)
He held Our Lady's bridle
  And helped her to alight;
He spread clean straw before her
  Whereon she might lie down,
And Jesus Christ has given him
  An everlasting crown.

      Unlock the door this evening
       And let your gate swing wide,
      Let all who ask for shelter
       Come speedily inside.
      What if your yard be narrow?
       What if your house be small?
      There is a Guest is coming
       Will glorify it all.

There was a joyous hostler
  Who knelt on Christmas morn
Beside the radiant manger
  Wherein his Lord was born.
His heart was full of laughter,
  His soul was full of bliss
When Jesus, on His Mother's lap,
  Gave him His hand to kiss.

      Unbar your heart this evening
       And keep no stranger out,
      Take from your soul's great portal
       The barrier of doubt.
      To humble folk and weary
       Give hearty welcoming,
      Your breast shall be to-morrow
       The cradle of a King.

At the foot of the Cross on Calvary
  Three soldiers sat and diced,
And one of them was the Devil
  And he won the Robe of Christ.

When the Devil comes in his proper form
  To the chamber where I dwell,
I know him and make the Sign of the Cross
  Which drives him back to Hell.

And when he comes like a friendly man
  And puts his hand in mine,
The fervour in his voice is not
  From love or joy or wine.

And when he comes like a woman,
  With lovely, smiling eyes,
Black dreams float over his golden head
  Like a swarm of carrion flies.

Now many a million tortured souls
  In his red halls there be:
Why does he spend his subtle craft
  In hunting after me?

Kings, queens and crested warriors
  Whose memory rings through time,
These are his prey, and what to him
  Is this poor man of rhyme,

That he, with such laborious skill,
  Should change from role to role,
Should daily act so many a part
  To get my little soul?

Oh, he can be the forest,
  And he can be the sun,
Or a buttercup, or an hour of rest
  When the weary day is done.

I saw him through a thousand veils,
  And has not this sufficed?
Now, must I look on the Devil robed
  In the radiant Robe of Christ?

He comes, and his face is sad and mild,
  With thorns his head is crowned;
There are great bleeding wounds in his feet,
  And in each hand a wound.

How can I tell, who am a fool,
  If this be Christ or no?
Those bleeding hands outstretched to me!
  Those eyes that love me so!

I see the Robe — I look — I hope —
  I fear — but there is one
Who will direct my troubled mind;
  Christ's Mother knows her Son.

O Mother of Good Counsel, lend
  Intelligence to me!
Encompass me with wisdom,
  Thou Tower of Ivory!

"This is the Man of Lies," she says,
  "Disguised with fearful art:
He has the wounded hands and feet,
  But not the wounded heart."

Beside the Cross on Calvary
  She watched them as they diced.
She saw the Devil join the game
  And win the Robe of Christ.

There was a little maiden
  In blue and silver drest,
She sang to God in Heaven
  And God within her breast.

It flooded me with pleasure,
  It pierced me like a sword,
When this young maiden sang:  "My soul
  Doth magnify the Lord."

The stars sing all together
  And hear the angels sing,
But they said they had never heard
  So beautiful a thing.

Saint Mary and Saint Joseph,
  And Saint Elizabeth,
Pray for us poets now
  And at the hour of death.

"Hail Mary, full of grace," the Angel saith.
  Our Lady bows her head, and is ashamed;
  She has a Bridegroom Who may not be named,
Her mortal flesh bears Him Who conquers death.
Now in the dust her spirit grovelleth;
  Too bright a Sun before her eyes has flamed,
  Too fair a herald joy too high proclaimed,
And human lips have trembled in God's breath.

O Mother-Maid, thou art ashamed to cover
  With thy white self, whereon no stain can be,
Thy God, Who came from Heaven to be thy Lover,
  Thy God, Who came from Heaven to dwell in thee.
About thy head celestial legions hover,
  Chanting the praise of thy humility.

I went to gather roses and twine them in a ring,
For I would make a posy, a posy for the King.
I got an hundred roses, the loveliest there be,
From the white rose vine and the pink rose bush and from the red rose tree.

But when I took my posy and laid it at His feet
I found He had His roses a million times more sweet.
There was a scarlet blossom upon each foot and hand,
And a great pink rose bloomed from His side for the healing of the land.

Now of this fair and awful King there is this marvel told,
That He wears a crown of linked thorns instead of one of gold.
Where there are thorns are roses, and I saw a line of red,
A little wreath of roses around His radiant head.

A red rose is His Sacred Heart, a white rose is His face,
And His breath has turned the barren world to a rich and flowery place.
He is the Rose of Sharon, His gardener am I,
And I shall drink His fragrance in Heaven when I die.