Filled am I with great wonderment
At this unwelcome news!
Am I not Herod? Who shall dare
My crown to take, my sceptre bear,
As king among the Jews?
Now at the window will I stand,
While in the street the armed band
The little children slay;
The babe just born in Bethlehem
Will surely slaughtered be with them,
Nor live another day!
Give up thy child into our hands!
It is King Herod who commands
That he should thus be slain!
O wicked king! O cruel speed!
To do this most unrighteous deed!
My children all are slain!
O monstrous men! What have you done!
My children all are slain!
With terror doth the tyrant hear
the King of kings hath come to dwell
where David’s court shall widely rear
A sceptered reign o’er Israel.
They scarcely waked before they slept,
They scarcely wept before they laughed;
They drank indeed death’s bitter draught,
But all its bitterest dregs were kept
And drained by Mothers while they wept.
From Heaven the speechless Infants speak:
Weep not (they say), our Mothers dear,
For swords nor sorrows come not here.
Now we are strong who were so weak,
And all is ours we could not seek.
We bloom among the blooming flowers,
We sing among the singing birds;
Wisdom we have who wanted words:
Here morning knows not evening hours,
All’s rainbow here without the showers.
And softer than our Mother’s breast,
And closer than our Mother’s arm,
Is here the Love that keeps us warm
And broods above our happy nest.
Dear Mothers, come: for Heaven is best.
Bednall: Welcome all wonders
