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And is it true? and is it true?
This most tremendous fate of all,
Seen in a stained-glass window’s hue,
A Baby in an ox’s stall?
The Maker of the stars and sea
Became a Child on earth for me?
And is it true? For if it is,
No loving finger tying strings,
Around those tissued fripperies,
The sweet and silly Christmas things,
Bath salts and inexpensive scent
And hideous tie so kindly meant.
No love that in a family dwells,
No caroling in frosty air,
Nor all the steeple-shaking bells
Can with this single Truth compare,
That God was man in Palestine.
And lives today in Bread and Wine.