This is the Month, and this the happy morn Wherin the Son of Heav'ns eternal King, Of wedded Maid, and Virgin Mother born, Our great redemption from above did bring; For so the holy sages once did sing, That he our deadly forfeit should release, And with his Father work us a perpetual peace. That glorious Form, that Light unsufferable, And that far-beaming blaze of Majesty, Wherwith he wont at Heav'ns high Councel-Table, To sit the midst of Trinal...
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Poetry