Love bids the morning tender light,
to wash the children clean.
Sons born of earth and fire’s light,
transposed by infant King.
The heavens spin in burning gold,
the ocean waters sigh,
the forest yearns for rhythms lost,
for rhythms drawing nigh.
So great a pulse runs chasing through,
each field of perfect grief.
From age to age he plows them new,
sows comfort 'mid belief.
Let the wild ones sing!
Let the barren shout!
Let the fallen lift their eyes!
For Beauty beats,
in the willing heart,
in the night,
Love's Son doth rise.