To the pagan mind, years ago,
O woman, what were you?
A slave, subject to brutal strength,
Not mental prowess true;
As woman was by nature raised,
To motherhood of race,
Should she below man’s level stand?
Nay, rather face to face.
But through Christ’s cross and legacy,
E’en higher she is raised,
And on a pedestal enthroned,
Sweet reverence is paid;
Yes, behold Christ’s blessed mother,
Ideal of womanhood,
Inspiring theme for poets’ dreams,
All graciousness and good.
So woman in thy sphere as queen,
And mother of the race,
God gave to you of all on earth,
The highly honored place
Of teacher, sculptor of mankind,
For with your hands you mould
The plastic mind of youth and child,
More precious far than gold.
CHRISTMAS LYRIC.
(Mystery of Love.)
Myst’ry of love, most holy love,
We worship thee our new born king,
Sween angels’ voices from above,
Heavenly strains of joy doth bring;
Lo! in Bethlehem’s holy shrine,
We see within a manger laid,
The infant Christ, the babe divine
Of heav’n and earth, come to our aid.
A CHAPLET OF FLOWERS.
A chaplet of flow’rs for our lady’s shrine,
Nature’s sweetest gift in the halls of time,
The years roll by, the seasons come and go,
And deep in our hearts doth the flowers grow.
We love the sunshine, the air, the showers
That nurture the earth bringing forth sweet flow’rs;
How much more our lady the virgin mild,
Who gave to us Bethlehem’s holy child.