CHRISTMAS POEM
It was the Lord who
two thousand years ago
wrote the truest poem
and called it Christmas,
he had conceived for eternity.
He wrote it one cold night
bejewelled with stars,
in a wretched stable
but it become a royal palace
when men were so hushed
you could hear the angels sing.
It was the Lord who wrote the sweetest poem:
to give us a sign
of His infinite Love
and He made it so clear
that the dull, black eyes
of ox and ass,
as they gazed on the Child
became light itself.
It was the Lord who
wrote the grandest poem
for the poor, sick, persecuted,
all the children and emigrants
and the aged cast out
for all who, in
their darkest nights,
look up at the stars
and cock the ears of their souls
to hear the angels` voices and say
whit their wounded
hearts still beating
Peace! Peace!
