Tell me, hills of Bethlehem, the shepherd-men who came

To tend their flocks that evening, were they ever quite the same?

Often I’ve seen the miracle portrayed upon their faces,

And felt they must have worn that look to all their wandering-places.

The glory of an angel-choir, each one in perfect part,

Must have made a lasting pattern upon their shepherd-heart;

And the Christ-child in the manger, in such a sorry place,

Must have etched the lines of wonder which never left their face.

No tender sheep, no angel-throng are ours to watch tonight,

But give us eyes for Christmas, help us to catch the light,

So that the gleam will pierce our hearts and we may feel we’ve been

Companions to the shepherds—not quite the same again.