Christmas-Poem-Stories

That night when shepherds heard
The song of hosts angelic choiring near,
A deaf man stirred in slumber's spell
And dreamed that he could hear.

That night when o'er the new-born babe
The tender Mary rose to lean,
A loathsome leper smiled in sleep,
And dreamed that he was clean.

That night when in the manger lay
The Sanctified who came to save,
A man moved in the sleep of death,
And dreamed there was no grave.

Selected.
 
 

Suppose

Suppose it were your birthday
And all your friends would come,
And gather round your fireplace
There in your happy home.

They come with smiles and gladness,
And bring their presents too.
But when they start to share them,
There's not a one for you.

They give them to each other,
A grand and costly lot.
But for the guest of honor,
They somehow just forgot.

You say such things don't happen,
Nor should it ever be;
It seems too crude and cruel,
For folks like you and me.

But friend, have you considered,
Just this is what men do?
Not, of course, to humans,
But of our Lord, its true.

We celebrate His birthday
With all our pomp and style;
But give to one another
And grieve Him all the while.

'Tis Christ we claim to honor
At this glad Christmastime;
Don't spend on friends the dollars
And give Him just a dime.

To give to one another
Indeed is very nice;
But best of all to Jesus,
For Him let's sacrifice.

His cause too long has suffered
By thoughtless, selfish men,
Let's bring to Christ the firstfruits,
And give our best to Him

--Fred D. Jarvis
 
 

The Eternal Gift

Submitted By Pastor Charles Bonner
Author unknown

He did not use a silvery box
Or paper green and red.
God laid His Christmas Gift to men
Within a manger bed

No silken cord was used to bind
The Gift sent from above,
'Twas wrapped in swaddling cloths
and bound
In cords of tender love.

There was no evergreen to which
His precious Gift was tied.
Upon a bare tree high on a hill
His Gift was hung....and died

'Twas taken down from off the tree
And in a grave was laid the precious Son of God,
But death itself could not destroy
The precious Gift of God

With mighty hand He lifted Him
From out the stony grave
Forevermore for everyman
An eternal Gift He gave
 

Sad Christmas

Christmas is a bitter day
For mothers who are poor,
The wistful eyes of children
Are daggers to endure.

Though shops are crammed with playthings
Enough for everyone.
If a mother's purse is empty
There might as well be none.

My purse is full of money
But I cannot buy a toy;
Only a wreath of holly
For the grave of my little boy.

My Christmas Wish

I've wished a very special wish
For you this Christmas-tide;
It reaches far beyond today,
‘Tis high and deep, and wide.

I wish for you the angels’ song
That tells of hope and love;
I wish the radiance of the Star
To guide your thoughts above.

I wish for you the sturdy faith
That led the Wise Men three
Through cold of night, o’er desert drear,
The Holy Child to see.

I wish for you a humble heart,
With purpose strong and true—
The blessing of the Christ, our Lord—
This is my wish for you.

—Edward Bos
 
  Christians Awake

 “What would you like for a Christmas present?” To any young girl such a question
would evoke delighted visions of long-wished-for possessions, but to Dolly the answer to
her father, John Byron, was, “Please write me a poem.” So on Christmas morning in 1749,
Dolly found on her plate at breakfast a piece of paper on which was written a hymn
entitled, “Christmas day, for Dolly.”

 Soon after, John Wainwright the organist of Manchester Parish Church wrote a tune
for it. On the following Christmas morning, Byron and Dolly were awakened by the sound
of singing below their windows. It was Wainwright with his choir singing Dolly's hymn,
“Christians, Awake.”

 CHRISTIANS, AWAKE

Christians, awake, salute the happy morn,
Where-on the Savior of the world was born;
Rise to adore the mystery of love,
Which hosts of angels chanted from above;
With them the joyful tiding first begun
Of God incarnate and the Virgin's Son.

—Selected
 
  I Would Be True

 From Princeton University there graduated in 1905 a young man by the name of
Howard Walter. Because of his sunny smile he was wanted where there was fun; because
of his keen mind he was sought for when counsel was needed; because of his consecration
to Christ, he was a blessing to all. Through college and seminary he went and then chose
the foreign field as his life service. He went to India and entered into work among the
students of the great educational center of the Punjab, Lahore.

 One Christmas, out of his own heart and life he wrote his mother a poem. And she,
recognizing the beauty of the message, sent it to Harper's Magazine. It was his Christmas
greeting to her. In 1919, when the influenza was raging in India, he was one of the
victims; but he still lives in this beautiful Christmas poem dedicated to his mother. His
influence is still felt in India. The verse has been set to music by Joseph Yates Peek.

“I would be true, for there are those who trust me;
I would be pure, for there are those who care,
I would be strong, for there is much to suffer;
I would be brave, for there is much to dare.
I would be friend to all the foe, the friendless;
I would be giving, and forget the gift;
I would be humble, for I know my weakness;
I would look up, and laugh, and love and lift.”
 
 

Savior Like a Shepherd Lead Us

One Christmas Eve, Ira D. Sankey was traveling by steamboat up the Delaware River.
Asked to sing, Mr. Sankey sang the “Shepherd Song.” After the song was ended, a man
with a rough, weather-beaten face came up to Mr. Sankey and said: “Did you ever serve in
the Union Army?” “Yes,” answered Mr. Sankey, “in the spring of 1860.” “Can you
remember if you were doing picket duty on a bright, moonlit night in 1862?” “Yes,”
answered Mr. Sankey, very much surprised.

 “So did I,” said the stranger, “but I was serving in the Confederate army. When I saw
you standing at your post I said to myself: ‘That fellow will never get away from here
alive.’ I raised my musket and took aim. I was standing in the shadow completely
concealed, while the full light of the moon was falling upon you.

 “At that instant, just as a moment ago, you raised your eyes to heaven and began to
sing. Music, especially song, has always had a wonderful power over me, and I took my
finger off the trigger. ‘Let him sing his song to the end,’ I said to myself. ‘I can shoot him
afterwards. He's my victim at all events, and my bullet cannot miss him.’ But the song you
sang then was the song you sang just now. I heard the words perfectly:

 We are Thine, do Thou befriend us,
 Be the guardian of our way.

 “Those words stirred up many memories in my heart. I began to think of my childhood
and my God-fearing mother. She had many, many times sung that song to me. But she
died all too soon, otherwise much in my life would no doubt have been different.

 “When you had finished your song it was impossible for me to take aim at you again. I
thought: ‘The Lord who is able to save that man from certain death must surely be great
and mighty’ and my arm of its own accord dropped limp at my side.”

—Religious Digest
 

Silent Night

 In the Austrian village of Hallein on Christmas Eve 1818, the organist, Franz Gruber,
composed a hymn called Song of Heaven and played and sang it in church the following
night. A man from a nearby town happened to hear the song and, being impressed,
memorized the words and music which he later taught to a traveling quartet.

 By 1854, the piece had become so famous that a search was made for its unknown
composer and Gruber was found. He then learned that his song had been “memorized,”
sung for 36 years and had become the most-beloved Christmas hymn of all-time under
another name—Silent Night.

 At that late date, the fact meant little to Franz Gruber, who was then 67, and he
remained an obscure and impoverished organist until his death in 1863.

—Selected
 

The Paradox of Christmas

    John Milton said in his beautiful poem On the Morning of Christ's Nativity:

"He forsook the courts of everlasting day and took with us a house of darksome clay."

Go to a hospital and visit the maternity ward and look at those gorgeous babies.  Imagine God - who created the universe, the stars in the heavens, the great mountains, the rivers, and everything - as a little baby.

It seems to be a contradiction, doesn't it?  Yet, both are true; the eternal, omnipotent God comes as a finite, helpless baby.  We celebrate this in the songs of Christmas.  Hear how we celebrate His power: "Joy to the world, the Lord has come, let earth receive her king," and how we celebrate His weakness: "Away in a manger, No crib for a bed, The little Lord Jesus lay down His sweet head."  This is one paradox of Christmas.

From the sermon "The Paradox of Christmas"
 Preaching, November, December, 1994, p. 69