One
Christmas
day
a
child
awoke
To
find
his
pine
tree
gone.
No
presents
lay
beneath
its
limbs,
No
snow
upon
the
lawn.
The
wintry
day
was
autumn
gray.
The
bulbs
were
all
burnt
out.
The
stockings
hung
in
tattered
shreds.
The
boy
began
to
shout:
“Who’s
stolen
Christmas
holiday?
Where
are
my
treats
and
toys?
Go
ask
my
parents,
ask
my
friends:
I’ve
been
a
perfect
boy!”
His
mother
heard
him
crying
out
And
rose
to
comfort
him.
She
staggered
back,
aghast,
to
see
The
festive
day
so
grim.
She
took
a
moment,
cleared
her
head,
Before
she
grabbed
her
son.
“Now
listen
here,
my
dear,
and
think
Of
what
you’ve
said
and
done!”
“It’s
gone!”
he
cried.
“It’s
gone,
it’s
gone!”
He
pulled
his
hair
and
wept.
His
mother
wrapped
him
in
her
arms.
Dad
came
down
from
where
he
slept.
He
sighed
to
see
his
boy
distraught.
He
found
himself
a
chair
And
sat
in
silence
for
a
time
To
choose
his
words
with
care.
“My
son,”
began
the
Dad
with
tact,
“You
cry
for
trees
and
lights,
For
gifts
and
mounds
of
snow
outside.
I
tell
you
all’s
alright.
“Our
Evergreen
is
with
us
still.
His
name
is
Christ
the
King.
His
ev’ry
branch
shall
never
die.
He
brings
eternal
Spring.
|
“Our
Light
shines
brighter
day
by
day.
The
Star
of
David
guides
All
those
who
mourn
and
ache
and
plead
Right
to
the
Judge’s
side.
“Our
present
is
Immanuel,
A
carpenter
who
healed,
An
innocent
who
bled
and
died,
An
empty
tomb
unsealed.
“As
for
the
mounds
of
snow,
dear
child,
You’ve
never
seen
such
white
As
clothes
a
man
whose
soul
believes
He’s
wrong
and
God
is
right.
“I
tell
you,
son,
whatever
grudge
You
hold
against
this
earth,
Whatever
fears
or
broken
dreams,
Whatever
curse
of
birth—
“The
truth
of
love
is
deeper
still
Than
caroling
and
cards.
All
things
were
meant
to
worship
Him
And
in
the
end
they
will.”
The
son,
o’erwhelmed,
took
to
his
feet,
Considered
for
a
while.
Great
feeling
shone
upon
his
face
I
wish
to
say
he
smiled.
I
cannot
say
if
he
was
glad
To
have
his
treasures
mocked.
Nor
can
I
say
if
he
was
mad
And
had
his
father
socked.
For
I
can
only
guarantee
That
what
I
need
to
hear
Is
what
the
father
told
his
son
And
tried
to
make
so
clear:
That
Christmas-time
is
dingy,
old,
Exhausted,
faded,
worn,
With
symbols
playing
pantomime
Unless
my
Lord
is
born.
|
