To nothing our sorrows are hidden ,
and it’s only in times of sorrow are our hearts entwined with thee .
For in these times the Crow must return to its stag ,
to pluck and proon ,
to pluck and groom .
For only now the fog can lift and her berries can be picked ,
and Toms daughter with bright bouquet can pick in order
to go a roving in the merry forest for a man that day .
What then if the grave was never entered ?
What if the gates were never shut ?
Or crushed to death by hungry men ?
For Tom brought a wage that day ,
to the baker to buy bread ,
so no more the rent man would bother ,
no more the poor house pay
No more to beg or borrow for in Gods grace his household lay .
For now Christmas Day Tom didst find tinder for to kindle a flame
so his wife and daughter and Tom to go a hunting that Christmas Day .
a stag on spit they carried home ,
to crackling fire and charring coals .
Salvation Army choirs sang that glad morn .
No more children with swollen bellies with nothing on their feet ,
This morning they found play with
Hopscotch in their streets .
Flung open were the doors this day ,
Flung open with food for all .
Gods light in a lowly stable in some backstreet Roman town shone ,
On a little child ,
small yet mighty ,
Gods plan to save them all .
The Crow out of the earth then took his prey ,
for a serpent in the grass did lay .
With bloody beak with one swoop it took ,
to peerless dawn reached for a new day .