Worn-torn hands and withered, cold,
So tender grasp a tarnished cross,
Which had long the lonely nights banished-
Safe passage to some brighter song...
For He whose image that metal boasts
Was storied born this day,
And though bent the frame, still's stout
the will that would some tribute give...
No trees or festive lights adorn
This bare and bleak abode-
Nor human touch to temper want
Or abandonment abate...
Then angels came to claim their own
Whom dear had Heaven held.