In the bleak midwinter, frosty wind made moan. Earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone. Snow had fallen, snow on snow, snow on snow. In the bleak midwinter long ago. Angels and archangels may have gathered there. Cherubim and seraphims roared the air. But only his mother in her maiden bliss. Worshipped there beloved with a kiss. What can I give him, poor as I am? If I were a shepherd, I would bring the lamb. If I were a wise man, I would do my part. Yet what can I give him? Give my heart, my heart. *
