Christmas Every Day

“Forgiveness means giving up all hope for a better past.”

Rudyard Kipling (1865-1936) outlived the Victorian era, but his verse always reflects the values of the reign of that great Queen. Though this was written in 1897 for Victoria’s Diamond Jubilee, it sounds a cautionary note about the impermanence of human empires and bids the British be humble.

God of our fathers, known of old,
  Lord of our far-flung battle line,
Beneath whose awful hand we hold
  Dominion over palm and pine—
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget—lest we forget!

The tumult and the shouting dies;
  The Captains and the Kings depart:
Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice,
  An humble and a contrite heart.
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget—lest we forget!

Far-called our navies melt away;
  On dune and headland sinks the fire:
Lo, all our pomp of yesterday
  Is one with Nineveh and Tyre!
Judge of the Nations, spare us yet,
Lest we forget—lest we forget!

If, drunk with sight of power, we loose
  Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe,
Such boastings as the Gentiles use,
  Or lesser breeds without the Law—
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget—lest we forget!

For heathen heart that puts her trust
  In reeking tube and iron shard,
All valiant dust that builds on dust,
  And guarding calls not Thee to guard,
For frantic boast and foolish word-
Thy Mercy on Thy People, Lord!

A hymn that combines martial ardor and the claim of godliness for the Union cause in the American Civil War, the “Battle Hymn of the Republic” was written by Julia Ward Howe for Atlantic magazine in 1862. The tune, originally a folk melody, had recently been applied to “John Brown’s Body”, about the executed Kansas anti-slaver.

Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord;
He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored;
He hath loosed the fateful lightning of His terrible swift sword:
His truth is marching on.

(Chorus)
Glory, Glory, hallelujah!
Glory, glory, hallelujah!
Glory, glory, hallelujah!
His truth is marching on.

I have seen Him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling camps,
They have builded Him an altar in the evening dews and damps;
I can read His righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps:
His day is marching on.

(Chorus)

I have read a fiery gospel writ in burnished rows of steel:
“As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my grace shall deal”;
Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with his heel,
Since God is marching on.

(Chorus)

He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat;
He is sifting out the hearts of men before His judgment-seat;
Oh, be swift, my soul, to answer Him! Be jubilant, my feet!
Our God is marching on.

(Chorus)

In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea,
With a glory in His bosom that transfigures you and me.
As He died to make men holy, let us die to make men free,
While God is marching on.

(Chorus)

This poem by John Henry Newman became a favourite hymn, famously sung amidst many disasters, including on the lifeboats of the “Titanic”, in Ravensbruck concentration camp, and by trapped miners underground

“Lead, Kindly Light, amidst th’encircling gloom,

Lead Thou me on!
The night is dark, and I am far from home,
Lead Thou me on!
Keep Thou my feet; I do not ask to see
The distant scene; one step enough for me.

I was not ever thus, nor prayed that Thou
Shouldst lead me on;
I loved to choose and see my path; but now
Lead Thou me on!
I loved the garish day, and, spite of fears,
Pride ruled my will. Remember not past years!

So long Thy power hath blest me, sure it still
Will lead me on.
O’er moor and fen, o’er crag and torrent, till
The night is gone,
And with the morn those angel faces smile,
Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile!

Meantime, along the narrow rugged path,
Thyself hast trod,
Lead, Saviour, lead me home in childlike faith,
Home to my God.
To rest forever after earthly strife

In the calm light of everlasting life.”

Here is another classic by the Scottish Anglican priest Henry Francis Lyte.

Praise, my soul, the King of Heaven;

To His feet thy tribute bring.

Ransomed, healed, restored, forgiven,

Who like me His praise should sing:

Alleluia! Alleluia!

Praise the everlasting King.

Praise Him for His grace and favour

To our fathers in distress.

Praise Him still the same as ever,

Slow to chide, and swift to bless.

Alleluia! Alleluia!

Glorious in His faithfulness.

Fatherlike He tends and spares us;

Well our feeble frame He knows.

In His hands He gently bears us,

Rescues us from all our foes.

Alleluia! Alleluia!

Widely yet His mercy flows.

Frail as summer’s flower we flourish,

Blows the wind and it is gone;

But while mortals rise and perish

Our God lives unchanging on,

Praise Him, Praise Him, Hallelujah

Praise the High Eternal One!

Angels, help us to adore Him;

Ye behold Him face to face;

Sun and moon, bow down before Him,

Dwellers all in time and space.

Alleluia! Alleluia!

Praise with us the God of grace.

There is wonderful poetry in Victorian hymns. This favourite was written by Henry Francis Lyte in 1847, as he lay dying of tuberculosis. Like all Anglican hymns it goes on two verses too long.

Abide with me; fast falls the eventide;
The darkness deepens; Lord with me abide.
When other helpers fail and comforts flee,
Help of the helpless, O abide with me.

Swift to its close ebbs out life’s little day;
Earth’s joys grow dim; its glories pass away;
Change and decay in all around I see;
O Thou who changest not, abide with me.

Not a brief glance I beg, a passing word,
But as Thou dwell’st with Thy disciples, Lord,
Familiar, condescending, patient, free.
Come not to sojourn, but abide with me.

Thou on my head in early youth didst smile,
And though rebellious and perverse meanwhile,
Thou hast not left me, oft as I left Thee.
On to the close, O Lord, abide with me.

I need Thy presence every passing hour.
What but Thy grace can foil the tempter’s power?
Who, like Thyself, my guide and stay can be?
Through cloud and sunshine, Lord, abide with me.

I fear no foe, with Thee at hand to bless;
Ills have no weight, and tears no bitterness.
Where is death’s sting? Where, grave, thy victory?
I triumph still, if Thou abide with me.

Hold Thou Thy cross before my closing eyes;
Shine through the gloom and point me to the skies.
Heaven’s morning breaks, and earth’s vain shadows flee;
In life, in death, O Lord, abide with me.

William Booth was, with his wife Catherine, the founder of the Salvation Army. Vachel Lindsay imagines the moment Booth and a train of those poor and deformed whom he tended in his lifetime enter into Heaven where they are transformed and healed. The poem was meant to be chanted and sung aloud.

Vachel Lindsay here honours the deeds of American eccentric John Chapman (1774-1845), aka Johnny Appleseed, who roamed the countryside establishing nurseries. He was a disciple of the religious visionary Emmanuel Swedenborg.

On the mountain peak, called ‘Going-To-The-Sun,’

I saw gray Johnny Appleseed at prayer

Just as the sunset made the old earth fair,

Then darkness came; in an instant, like great smoke,

The sun fell down as though its great hoops broke

And dark rich apples, poured from the dim flame

Where the sun set, came rolling toward the peak,

A storm of fruit, a mighty cider-reek,

The perfume of the orchards of the world,

From apple-shadows: red and russet domes

That turned to clouds of glory and strange homes

Above the mountain tops for cloud-born souls: –

Reproofs for men who build the world like moles,

Models for men, if they would build the world

As Johnny Appleseed would have it done –

Praying, and reading the books of Swedenborg

On the mountain top called ‘Going-To-The-Sun.’

Gerard Manley Hopkins was a Victorian Jesuit and poet, writer of highly innovative verse.

The world is charged with the grandeur of God.

  It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;
  It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil
Crushed.
  Why do men then now not reck his rod?
Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;
  And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;
  And wears man's smudge and shares man's smell:  the soil
Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.


And for all this, nature is never spent;
  There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;
And though the last lights off the black West went
  Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs—
Because the Holy Ghost over the bent
  World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.