The Birth Day Of The Christ Child Dawneth Slow Out Of The Opal East In Rosy Flame, As If A Luminous Picture In Its Frame-- A Great Cathedral Window, Toward The Sun Lifted A Form Divine, Which Still Below Stretched Hands Of Benediction;--While The Air Swayed The Bright Aureole Of The Flowing Hair Which Lit Our Upturned Faces;--Even So Look On Us From The Heavens, Divinest One And Let Us Hear Through The Slow Moving Years. Long Centuries Of Wrongs, And Crimes, And Tears,-- The Echo Of The Angel'S Song Again, Peace And Good Will, Good Will And Peace To Men, A Little Space Make Silence,--That Our Ears, Filled With The Din Of Toil And Moil And Pain May Catch The Jubilant Rapture Of The Skies,-- The Glories Of The Choirs Of Paradise. The Hills Still Tremble When The Thunders Cease Of The Loud Diapason,--And Again Through The Rapt Stillness Steals The Hymn Of Peace; Melodious And Sweet Its Far Refrain Dying In Distance, As The Shadows Die Of White Wings Vanished Up The Morning Sky, As Farther Still--And Thinner--More Remote-- A Film Of Sound, The Aerial Voices Float-- Peace And Good Will, Good Will And Peace To Men!