Now begins the winter of our contentment
Made glorious by this Son of God;
And all the skies that rent upon our house
In the deep womb of the Virgin buried.
Now are our doors bound with victorious wreaths;
Our once weak arms hung up for celebration;
Our stern criticisms changed to merry greetings,
Our lonely sequesters to delightful gatherings.
Grim-visaged politics hath unscathed this sprinkled forehead;
And now, instead of spewing barbed conversation
To fright the ears of disagreeable adversaries,
He capers nimbly up the Advent wreath
To the lavish pleasing of a law-wearied pulpit.
And I, that am not shaped for unending condemnation,
Nor made to court a stifling mask;
I, that am rudely uncovered, and want love’s Beloved
To shape before a wanton ambling mouth;
I, that am defiant of hindrances of gospel,
Cheated of frowns by genuine nature,
Redeemed, tho unfinished, saved in my time
In this beleaguered world, scarce guilt-ridden,
And that so gotten be unfashionable
As God no longer barks at me;
Why, I, in this weak sniping time of tumult,
Have all delight to wave away the epoch,
Blessed to spy the shadow of the cross
And descant on mine fixed deformity:
And therefore, since I will not be unloved,
To ne’er entertain the dark-traveled days,
I am determined to prove a friend
And love the unending gospel of this season.
Plots have I made, services dangerous,
By sober prophecies, studies and dreams,
To set my brother Christian and the King
In copious love the one towards the other:
And if the Newborn King be as true and just
As I am reckless, loud and boisterous,
This season should Christ closely be followed,
About the prophecy, which says that God’s
Own Incarnation murdered shall be this spring.
Dwell, December, down to my soul: here
Christ comes.
– With Apologies to Gloucester (and William)
