Fly Hence, Pale Care, No More Remember Past Sorrows With The Fled December, But Let Each Pleasant Cheek Appear Smooth As The Childhood Of The Year, And Sing A Carol Here. 'Twas Brave, 'Twas Brave, Could We Command The Hand Of Youth'S Swift Watch To Stand As You Have Done Your Day; Then Should We Not Decay. But All We Wither, And Our Light Is Spilt In Everlasting Night, Whenas Your Sight Shows Like The Heavens Above The Moon, Like An Eternal Noon That Sees No Setting Sun. Keep Up Those Flames, And Though You Shroud Awhile Your Forehead In A Cloud, Do It Like The Sun To Write In The Air A Greater Text Of Light; Welcome To All Our Vows, And Since You Pay To Us This Day So Long Desir'D, See We Have Fir'D Our Holy Spikenard, And There'S None But Brings His Stick Of Cinnamon, His Eager Eye Or Smoother Smile, And Lays It Gently On The Pile, Which Thus Enkindled, We Invoke Your Name Amidst The Sacred Smoke. Chorus. Come Then, Great Lord. And See Our Altar Burn With Love Of Your Return, And Not A Man Here But Consumes His Soul To Glad You In Perfumes.