Each year we sing with bated Christmas voice
as if events in Bethlehem were nice;
when every house and pub had shut its door
and Mary in a shed her baby bore.
Forgive us, God, that things are still the same,
That Christ is homeless under other names;
still holy fam'lies to our cities come
where life is sick and sore in crowded slum.
God, make it clear that joy will be denied
unless the door into our life stands wide;
that even with our tables richly spread
our house of life is short of living bread.
Give to your people restlessness of soul
till right is done and life is healed and whole;
keep us impatient till the time has come
when all your children are on earth at home.