NEVERTHELESS this Year of Grief
The Tree of God's in leaf.
The stem, the branch quickeneth
With sap, this year of Death.
For in the time of the flowering thorn
The Babe, the Babe, is born!
Christ's folk, look up, be not dismayed,
The Lord's in the cattle shed.
He comes, a little trembling One,
To a world else lost, undone.
With His poor folk He wills to stay
In this their difficult day.
Poor war-worn world, you shall have ease!
He signs your lasting peace.
He hath given His people rest from wars,
By the cold light of stars.
The charter of their peace shall stand
Writ by His hour-old hand.
The Tree of Paradise quickeneth.
Be still,--there is no death!
