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النشر الإلكتروني


Guided by his gentle staff
Where the sunny pastures laugh,
I go in and out and feed,
Lacking nothing that I need;
When I thirst, my feet he brings
To the fresh and living springs.

Must I not rejoice for this?
He is mine, and I am his;
And when these bright days are past,
Safely in his arms at last

He will bear me home to heaven;
Ah, what joy hath Jesus given !



'TIS Christmas day! glad voices
Repeat the pleasant sound;
And happy faces in our home,
And loving looks, abound.
Why do we thus greet Christmas morn?
It is the day that Christ was born.


With little gifts that tell our love,
With garlands on the wall,

With thankful hearts and helpful hands,
We keep a festival.

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Why do we thus keep Christmas morn?
It is the day that Christ was born.

Full eighteen hundred years ago

Christ Jesus came on earth,-
He came, he lived, he died for us:

We thank God for his birth;
And therefore we keep Christmas morn,
The day our Saviour, Christ, was born.

And on this Christmas morning,
When the frost is at the door,
Dear child in your warm, pleasant home,
Think of the sick and poor:

So shall you well keep Christmas morn,
The day our Saviour, Christ, was born.

Christ healed the sick, and helped the poor,
When he was on the earth:

Do what you can to be like him

This morning of his birth;

Help some one to keep Christmas morn,
The day your Saviour, Christ, was born.





With patient hand Jesus in clay once wrought,
And made a snowy dove that upward flew:
Dear child, from all things draw some holy thought,
That, like his dove, they may fly upward too.

MARY, the mother good and mild,

Went forth one summer's day, That Jesus and his comrades all

In meadows green might play.

To find the brightest, freshest flowers,
They search the meadows round,
They twined them all into a wreath,
And little Jesus crowned.

Tired of play, they came at last
And sat at Mary's feet,

While Jesus asked his mother dear
A story to repeat.

"And we,” said one, "from out this clay Will make some little birds,

So shall we all sit quietly

And heed the mother's words."




Then Mary, in her gentle voice,
Told of a little child,

Who lost her way one dark, dark night
Upon a dreary wild;

And how an angel came to her,

And made all bright around,
And took the trembling little one
From off the damp, hard ground;

And how he bore her in his arms
Up to the blue so far,

And how he laid her fast asleep,
Down in a silver star.

The children sit at Mary's feet,
But not a word they say,
So busily their fingers work

To mould the birds of clay.

But now the clay that Jesus held
And turned unto the light,
And moulded with a patient touch,
Changed to a perfect white.

And slowly grew within his hands
A fair and gentle dove,
Whose eyes unclose, whose wings unfold,
Beneath his look of love.


The children drop their birds of clay,

And by his side they stand,
To look upon the wondrous dove
He holds within his hand.

And when he bends and softly breathes,
Wide are the wings outspread,
And when he bends and breathes again,
It hovers round his head.

Slowly it rises in the air

Before their eager eyes,
And with a white and steady wing,
Higher and higher flies.

The children all stretch forth their arms,

As if to draw it down:

"Dear Jesus made the little dove From out the clay so brown.

"Canst thou not live with us below,
Thou little dove of clay,
And let us hold thee in our hands,
And feed thee every day?

"The little dove, it hears us not,
But higher still doth fly;
It could not live with us below,
Its home is in the sky."


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