Winter Solstice Carols: The Sacred Mystery of Corpus Christi Carol & In the Bleak Midwinter
Greetings Friends,
As we approach the threshold of the winter solstice, I find myself listening to the “Corpus Christi Carol” and “In the Bleak Midwinter,” and I wanted to share what brings me back to these songs time and time again. Below you’ll find links to listen to each song along with a bit of history and background on their meanings. I hope that you find them as captivating as I have, and that they support your solstice self-care and spiritual practices.
I know this is a bit different than my usual winter solstice offerings, that’s because lately I’ve been drawn to poetry and music. They offer something special during this time of darkness because they lull me into a state of contemplation and reflection, which is exactly what this time of year is for.
Think of me now (for I also think of you), tucked in at home with a book and my record player, watching the birds out the window while the music plays, dreaming and contemplating life, love, death, and dreams. After all, winter is the dreaming time, when we turn inward and take stock of the realms within, so that come spring we might paint the outer ones with the active expression of our renewed life force.
When I listen to “Corpus Christi Carol” and “In the Bleak Midwinter” I hear songs that extend beyond their simple melodies by offering something timeless and heartbreaking—for it is love, pain, and age-old themes of suffering and hope that lay at the heart of them.
Each piece holds contradictions without resolving them: life and death, majesty and humility, mystery and intimacy. They ask us to dwell in paradox rather than explanation, which feels deeply appropriate for this dark turning point.
Please join me now as we explore each song together. I would be curious to know if these songs resonate with you. Let’s dive in.
The Corpus Christi Carol
Some YouTube Links to Have A Listen:
This is one of the most enigmatic pieces in the English carol tradition. First written down by Richard Hill, a London grocer, between 1504 and 1536, the carol is even older than its transcription. Many scholars believe it dates from the late 15th century. Adding to its mysterious and romantic nature, the original author remains anonymous, lost to the fading threads of time. Here are the lyrics for reference.
Lully, lullay, lully, lullay, The falcon hath borne my make away.
He bare him up, he bare him down, He bare him into an orchard brown.
Lully, lullay, lully, lullay, The falcon hath borne my make away.
In that orchard there was a hall, That was hanged with purple and pall.
Lully, lullay, lully, lullay, The falcon hath borne my make away.
And in that hall there was a bed: It was hanged with gold so red.
Lully, lullay, lully, lullay, The falcon hath borne my make away.
And in that bed there lies a knight, His wounds bleeding day and night.
Lully, lullay, lully, lullay, The falcon hath borne my make away.
By that bed’s side there kneels a maid, And she weeps both night and day.
Lully, lullay, lully, lullay, The falcon hath borne my make away.
And by that bed’s side there stands a stone, Corpus Christi written thereon.
The haunting refrain “Lully, lullay” (a lullaby) frames this strange, dreamlike narrative: a falcon carries away the speaker’s beloved to an orchard containing a hall draped in purple and gold, where a knight lies bleeding from wounds that never heal, while a maiden kneels weeping beside him. At the bedside stands a stone inscribed with “Corpus Christi.”
Scholars have debated the carol’s meaning for centuries. The leading interpretations include:
Eucharistic symbolism: The imagery may derive from the medieval cult of the Easter sepulchre, with its crucifix, host, and embroidered hangings, and watchers kneeling day and night in devotion. The medieval “cult of the Easter sepulchre” refers to the elaborate Holy Week liturgical ceremonies centered around a temporary tomb-like structure used to symbolize the burial and resurrection of Jesus Christ. It was a widespread practice, particularly in late medieval Britain and Ireland, designed to make the Easter story a vibrant, sensory, and dramatic experience for the congregation.
From Good Friday through Easter morning, the consecrated host (the body of Christ in bread form) would be placed in this sepulchre, often draped in purple and gold cloth, while members of the parish kept constant vigil, kneeling in prayer day and night. The carol’s hall “hanged with purple and pall,” the bed “hanged with gold so red,” the stone marked “Corpus Christi” (body of Christ), and the maiden who “weeps both night and day” all mirror this liturgical practice. In this reading, the carol becomes a meditation on perpetual presence with the sacred, on bearing witness to Christ’s suffering and death, and on the mystery of a body that bleeds eternally for the world’s redemption. The weeping maiden represents the faithful keeping vigil, unable to look away from the wound, maintaining her watch through the long night before resurrection.
The Fisher King and Holy Grail: The wounded knight evokes one of the most powerful figures from Arthurian legend, the Fisher King, who first appears in Chrétien de Troyes’ unfinished romance Perceval, or The Story of the Grail (written around 1180-1190). In medieval Grail romances, the Fisher King is the guardian of the Holy Grail who suffers from a wound that will not heal, leaving him unable to stand or ride. His perpetual suffering is mysteriously linked to the land itself, for his kingdom has become a wasteland, barren and dying, because of his wound.
The Fisher King can only be healed when a questing knight asks the right question, usually “Whom does the Grail serve?” or “What ails thee?” But many knights fail to ask, and the wound continues bleeding. The carol’s imagery of the bleeding knight, the weeping maiden, and the stone marked “Corpus Christi” suggests these are the same wound, the same mystery. A sacred wounding that contains both suffering and redemption.
The wounded consciousness of humanity: The ever-bleeding wound might also represent humanity’s wounded consciousness after the loss of Christ; we bleed because we do not know how to heal ourselves and therefore the world. The weeping maiden keeps vigil because we must ever weep for the terrible pain we inflict, unable to understand the true origin of the wound.
In this reading, the carol becomes a meditation on our collective inability to heal what we cannot name, our exile from wholeness, and the perpetual grief of a world that has forgotten how to ask the healing questions. Like the knights who visited the Fisher King’s castle and stayed silent, we witness suffering but fail to ask, “What ails thee?” We fail to ask with true compassion what hurts, what’s needed, whom the sacred serves. Without the question, the wound continues bleeding, the wasteland persists, and we can only kneel and weep beside what we cannot heal.
Political allegory: Some scholars suggest the falcon (Anne Boleyn’s heraldic badge) represents her displacement of Catherine of Aragon in Henry VIII’s affections, with the bleeding knight symbolizing the church wounded by Henry’s break from Rome.
What makes this carol so powerful is its refusal to resolve into a single meaning. It holds Easter and Christmas, sacred wounding and political trauma, personal grief and collective consciousness all at once. The bleeding knight could be Christ, the Fisher King, the church itself, or humanity’s wounded heart, and perhaps the carol’s genius is that it’s all these simultaneously. The mystery deepens rather than clarifies: Why does the wound never heal? What question have we failed to ask? What have we lost that keeps us weeping beside the bed?
Benjamin Britten recognized the carol’s spiritual depth when he paired it with “In the Bleak Midwinter” in his 1933 work “A Boy was Born,” and Jeff Buckley’s heartbreaking 1994 recording brought it to new audiences, describing it as “a fairytale about a falcon who takes the beloved of the singer to an orchard.” But beneath the fairytale lies something more troubling and true: a wound that will not close, a vigil that cannot end, and the terrible beauty of staying present to suffering we cannot fix.
In the Bleak Midwinter
Some YouTube Links to Have A Listen:
Christina Rossetti wrote this poem in 1872 for Scribner’s Monthly, originally titled simply “A Christmas Carol.” It wasn’t set to music until 1906, twelve years after her death, when Gustav Holst composed the sublime tune “Cranham” for The English Hymnal. Harold Darke’s more elaborate 1911 setting was later voted the best Christmas carol by leading choirmasters worldwide. Here are the lyrics for your reference.
In the bleak midwinter, frosty wind made moan, Earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone; Snow had fallen, snow on snow, snow on snow, In the bleak midwinter, long ago.
Our God, Heaven cannot hold Him, nor earth sustain; Heaven and earth shall flee away when He comes to reign. In the bleak midwinter a stable place sufficed The Lord God Almighty, Jesus Christ.
Enough for Him, whom cherubim worship night and day, A breastful of milk and a mangerful of hay; Enough for Him, whom angels fall down before, The ox and ass and camel which adore.
Angels and archangels may have gathered there, Cherubim and seraphim thronged the air; But only His mother, in her maiden bliss, Worshiped the Beloved with a kiss.
What can I give Him, poor as I am? If I were a shepherd, I would bring a lamb; If I were a Wise Man, I would do my part; Yet what I can I give Him: give my heart.
Rossetti, a deeply devout Anglo-Catholic influenced by the Oxford Movement (a 19th-century revival within the Church of England that emphasized ritual, sacrament, and mystery), creates a profound theological paradox in simple language. She places Christ’s birth in a Victorian English winter (snow and all) despite knowing full well that Bethlehem doesn’t look like that. But this isn’t historical confusion; it’s deliberate. By setting the nativity in the frozen landscape her readers knew, she makes the story immediate and felt. The bleak midwinter becomes a metaphor for spiritual desolation: the harsh landscape of Roman occupation, the vast distance between heaven’s glory and earth’s suffering, the coldness of a world that doesn’t recognize what it’s been given.
The poem moves from that frozen outer world through theological enormity (”Heaven cannot hold Him, nor earth sustain”) to the most intimate gesture imaginable: Mary’s kiss. And then it turns to us, asking the question we’ve all asked when faced with something too large to comprehend: “What can I give Him, poor as I am?” The answer, “give my heart,” is both humble and radical. Not grand gestures, not wealth or status, just the honest offering of ourselves.
Even if you’re not religious, there’s something powerful in this message: to give your heart to the world. For the world is ever terrible, but also ever wondrous, and a remarkable opportunity to love and be loved lives within us all, despite all that might pursue to take that love or break our hearts. The carol reminds us that our presence, our attention, our willingness to stay open matters more than we think.
What makes this carol so affecting is how its simplicity opens into profound depths. The stark winter imagery (earth hard as iron, water like stone, snow on snow) becomes the backdrop for the central mystery: God choosing to enter the world not in glory but in absolute vulnerability. The virgin mother’s kiss, so ordinary and tender, becomes an act of worship equal to angelic adoration. The humble stable “suffices” for the Almighty. Rossetti shows us that the sacred isn’t separate from the everyday; it’s woven through it, if we have eyes to see.
Both carols share this quality of holding contradictions without resolving them. They use material images (bleeding wounds, frozen water, a simple stable) to point toward transcendent realities. They’ve endured precisely because their meanings remain open, mysterious, and multiple. They’re songs that don’t explain the holy; they simply bear witness to it.
In this season of long darkness before the light returns, these songs invite us to sit with mystery rather than rush toward resolution. They remind us that the sacred lives in paradox: the wounded king who guards the grail, the God whom heaven cannot hold cradled in a mother’s arms, the poorest gift (love) being the only one that matters. But perhaps most importantly, they remind us of the holy that lives in us all, that part of ourselves that never dies, that remains innocent and pure despite the wounds we bear and carry. Midwinter is a time to remember that part of yourself. Perhaps these songs will aid in that remembering.
While I am not religious, I can still appreciate the beauty of these songs, for they have been carried in the collective memory of my ancestors. I believe that is, in part, why they resonate with me so deeply. My people have come from England, Ireland, and Western Europe, where these songs were very likely sung through countless winters. When I listen to them now, I’m listening across time, joining a long line of people who have turned inward during the dark season, who have contemplated wounds and healing, who have asked what gift they might offer to a world both terrible and wondrous.
May you find your own meanings in these haunting melodies.
Journal Prompts for the Dark Season
On Mystery and Unknowing
What mysteries in your own life have you been trying too hard to solve? What might happen if you simply sat with them instead?
The Corpus Christi Carol never explains who the bleeding knight is or why the maiden weeps. What questions in your spiritual life might not need answers right now?
On Sacred Wounds
The Fisher King’s wound will not heal, and somehow this is connected to his sacred task. What wounds of yours might contain meaning rather than simply needing to be fixed?
Rossetti writes of earth “hard as iron” and water “like a stone.” Where do you feel frozen or hardened in your life right now? What might this hardness be protecting?
On Paradox and Contradiction
“Heaven cannot hold Him” yet a stable suffices. What contradictions are you holding in your own spiritual life?
The carol asks, “What can I give Him, poor as I am?” What feels like “not enough” in your life that might be exactly what’s needed?
On Witness and Presence
The maiden in the Corpus Christi Carol simply kneels and weeps beside the wounded knight. When has your presence been enough, even when you couldn’t fix something?
The Fisher King awaits someone who will ask the right question. Who in your life might need you to ask, “What ails thee?” rather than trying to solve their problems?
On Darkness and Waiting
We’re approaching the longest night of the year. What are you waiting for in this dark season?
Both carols speak of ancient wounds and long waiting. What part of your life feels like a wasteland right now? What would healing look like—or does it need to look like anything at all?
Bibliography & Further Reading
On the Corpus Christi Carol:
Duffy, Eamon. The Stripping of the Altars: Traditional Religion in England, 1400-1580. Yale University Press, 1992.
Greene, Richard L. “The Meaning of the Corpus Christi Carol.” Medium Ævum, vol. 29, no. 1, 1960, pp. 10-21.
Hill, Richard. Balliol College MS 354 (the original manuscript, c. 1504-1536), Oxford.
On the Fisher King and Grail Legends:
Chrétien de Troyes. Perceval, or The Story of the Grail (c. 1180-1190).
Eschenbach, Wolfram von. Parzival (c. 1200-1210).
Malory, Thomas. Le Morte d’Arthur (1485).
Weston, Jessie L. From Ritual to Romance. Cambridge University Press, 1920.
On “In the Bleak Midwinter”:
Bradley, Ian. The Penguin Book of Carols. Penguin Books, 1999.
Heady, Chene. “Re-enchanting the World: The Poetry of Christina Rossetti and the High Church Revival.” Religion and the Arts, vol. 4, no. 3, 2000.
Rossetti, Christina. “A Christmas Carol.” Scribner’s Monthly, vol. 3, no. 3, January 1872.
On Christina Rossetti:
Marsh, Jan. Christina Rossetti: A Writer’s Life. Viking, 1994.
Prior, Karen Swallow. “The Remarkable Woman Behind ‘In the Bleak Midwinter.’” The Gospel Coalition, November 17, 2020.
Musical Interpretations:
Britten, Benjamin. A Boy was Born, Op. 3 (combines both carols), 1933.
Buckley, Jeff. “Corpus Christi Carol” from Grace, 1994.
Holst, Gustav. Setting of “In the Bleak Midwinter” (tune: CRANHAM), 1906.
Darke, Harold. Choral setting of “In the Bleak Midwinter,” 1911.