I went to England once.
London, not Manchester.
Rained cold, a bit sideways.
Dark, dreadful, dingy.
Under the weather.
I ran watered streets.
Unbooted, blithely undone.
Up, down, willy nilly.
Slowed through Piccadilly.
Magic.
To love a child is bliss complete,
her feisty ways, his squishy feet,
his face alight, her brown eyes dancing,
a wave goodbye while backward glancing.
Oh, how I love a fledgling year,
wiped free of gloom and haze,
where all the calendar is clear
to mark in sunny days.
When every guest has taken leave,
and gifts are all unwrapped and gone,
I take a little time to grieve
before good memories linger on.
The creatures of the forest
were gathered all around.
The day was Christmas morning.
Soft snow lay on the ground.
A child was given to the world
one perfect, starlit night.
He came to bless us with His truth
and fill our souls with light.
He was the Son of God and Mary,
human yet divine,
the only One who had the pow’r
to take your sins and mine.
One quiet night in Bethlehem,
One rough and lonely manger bed.
One star as bright as breaking day,
One Baby nestled in the hay.
Who knows and loves the Savior more
than a believing child?
His faith is fresh and innocent;
her spirit, meek and mild.