O CHRIST, born on the holy day, br I have no gift to give my King; br No flowers grow by my weary way; br I have no birthday song to sing. br br br How can I sing Thy name and praise, br Who never saw Thy face divine; br Who walk in darkness all my days, br And see no Eastern stars a-shine? br br br Yet, when their Christmas gifts they bring, br How can I leave Thy praise unsung? br How stay from homage to the King, br And hold a silent, grudging tongue? br br br Lord, I found many a song to sing, br And many a humble hymn of praise br For Thy great Miracle of Spring, br The wonder of the waxing days. br br br When I beheld Thy days and years, br Did I not sing Thy pleasant earth? br The moons of love, the years of tears, br The mysteries of death and birth? br br br Have I not sung with all my soul br While soul and song were mine to yield, br Thy lightning crown, Thy cloud-control, br The dewy clover of Thy field? br br br Have I not loved Thy birds and beasts, br Thy streams and woods, Thy sun and shade; br Have I not made me holy feasts br Of all the beauty Thou hast made? br br br What though my tear-tired eyes, alas! br Won never grace Thy face to see? br I heard Thy footstep on the grass, br Thy voice in every wind-blown tree. br br br No music now I make or win, br Yet, Lord, remember I have been br The lover of Thy world, wherein br I found nought common or unclean. br br br Grown old and blind, I sing no more, br Thy saints in heaven sing sweet and strong, br Yet take the songs I made of yore br For echoes to Thy birthday song.