At both the confines of the earth,
where suns arise again and set,
Christ shall be sung, The Prince whose birth
puts us in maiden Mary’s debt.
Blessed the Author of the world,
who took a body like a slave:
to save us through flesh from loss incurred
the flesh He had made, His flesh He gave.
Closed was His mother’s womb before,
still closed when Grace came through the door.
Sweet virgin! She had not foreseen
that Heaven in her to earth would lean.
Down to her spotless ark God came,
the very temple for His name.
Did ever virgin have a son?
This one God for her child had won.
Egress she gave to Him at length
Whose coming Gabriel had declared,
Whose presence John’s exultant strength
adoring, with his mother shared.
Freely He chose, possessing all,
the hay-strewn bed the cattle stall;
and He who gives the birds their bread
Himself on meagre milk was fed.
“Glory,” Saints and Angels sang:
heaven with their praises rang;
while shepherds watched with wondering eyes
the Shepherd Who had made the world.
A solis ortu cardine, the Nativity Hymn of Siadhal (or Sedulius) of Ireland (fifth century)
