The Christmas Pilgrimage (Bethlehem)

What means this waiting throng? Whence have these weary, way-worn wanderers come? Why rises, in strange tongues, the expectant hum, Like that tense under-song The joyful Jordan voices in the spring Till Hermon hearkens, leaning grandly down, And wearing still his shimmering snowy crown? Soon will these murmuring lips with ardor sing, And soon these lifted faces, wan or brown, Glow into worship that is rapturing. Back will be thrown the consecrated door, And then these feet, from many a distant shore, Be privileged to press the hallowed floor. Why have they come,—the hardy mountaineer From Lebanon’s cedars and their checkered shade? The merchant and the snowy-mantled maid Who hold great Nilus dear? Why have they come,—the men with restless eyes And pallid cheeks that tell of norland skies? Why have they come,—the Latin and the Greek? Do pilgrims thus this sanctuary seek Because ’twas here For year on fiery year The red earth drank The deluged blood of Paynim and of Frank? Or do they surge to see The antique symmetry Of springing arch and carven pillar fine, In this old holy house of Constantine? Ah, no! ah, no! To them the memory Of war is not, and monarchs play no part In any thought that stirs an eager heart. They have no eyes to see A single graceful groining. What care they If here, upon a bygone Christmas-day, The King-crusader, Baldwin, took his crown! Or what to them the saint of blest renown In yonder sepulchre, now crumbling clay! Their patient feet one precious spot would press, Their yearning eyes would lovingly caress The time-dulled silver star Sunk deep within the pavement, footfall-worn: “Here, of the Virgin Mary, Christ was born,” They read, these pilgrims who have plodded far. They read and pass and ponder. Few can see The tiny chapel and the dim-lit shrine, And feel no thrill, despite the mummery, Of something more divine Within the breast than ever pulsed before. Then let us pilgrims be Upon this sacred day we all adore! Although our mortal feet touch not the floor, Although our mortal eyes may not behold, Our spirits may take flight, And with immortal sight Stand where the prayerful wise-men stood of old In ecstasy of adoration, when They saw the Savior of the sons of men.