The Holy Babe in an Ox's Stall

From "Christmas" by Sir John Betjeman

"And is it true,
This most tremendous tale of all,
Seen in a stained-glass window's hue,
A Baby in an ox's stall?
The Maker of the stars and sea
Become a Child on earth for me?

And is it true? For if it is,
No loving fingers tying strings
Around those tissued fripperies,
The sweet and silly Christmas things,
Bath salts and inexpensive scent
And hideous tie so kindly meant,

No love that in a family dwells,
No carolling in frosty air,
Nor all the steeple-shaking bells
Can with this single Truth compare -
That God was man in Palestine
And lives today in Bread and Wine."

The Holy Other

 

The Holy Other

How the Only, Holy Other

Would become just another,

To walk among men

I cannot comprehend.

Only His holy character

Caused Him to come matter,

Allowing us here so far below,

To know Him and to show

Us how far we have fallen,

While giving hope of heaven.

Truly God is holy, holy, holy!

Just as true "Woe is me!"

Only God's love and grace

Can compel me to face,

Jesus, born of human mother, 

Imaging the Only, Holy Other.

Hope Ellen Rapson

This Christmas, consider His infant hands.

 

This poem about the Incarnation of Jesus, fully human and fully God, is offered as a Christmas poem by Hope Ellen Rapson.

Hypostasis

With his infant hands,

All stars are held in place.

The brightest one stands,

To shine upon the face

Of Him who expands

And orders all matter, space.

So emptied---into finite man,

Here born, lays Eternal Grace.

Bound now within time’s span,

His flesh-clad feet will trace,

An ancient redemptive plan

To re-create Adam’s race---

With His Infinite Hands.

A Blessed Tenth Day of Christmas

 

Christmas
by John Betjeman

The bells of waiting Advent ring,
The Tortoise stove is lit again
And lamp-oil light across the night
Has caught the streaks of winter rain
In many a stained-glass window sheen
From Crimson Lake to Hookers Green.

The holly in the windy hedge
And round the Manor House the yew
Will soon be stripped to deck the ledge,
The altar, font and arch and pew,
So that the villagers can say
'The church looks nice' on Christmas Day.

Provincial Public Houses blaze,
Corporation tramcars clang,
On lighted tenements I gaze,
Where paper decorations hang,
And bunting in the red Town Hall
Says 'Merry Christmas to you all'.

And London shops on Christmas Eve
Are strung with silver bells and flowers
As hurrying clerks the City leave
To pigeon-haunted classic towers,
And marbled clouds go scudding by
The many-steepled London sky.

And girls in slacks remember Dad,
And oafish louts remember Mum,
And sleepless children's hearts are glad.
And Christmas-morning bells say 'Come!'
Even to shining ones who dwell
Safe in the Dorchester Hotel.

And is it true,
This most tremendous tale of all,
Seen in a stained-glass window's hue,
A Baby in an ox's stall?
The Maker of the stars and sea
Become a Child on earth for me?

And is it true? For if it is,
No loving fingers tying strings
Around those tissued fripperies,
The sweet and silly Christmas things,
Bath salts and inexpensive scent
And hideous tie so kindly meant,

    No love that in a family dwells,
    No carolling in frosty air,
    Nor all the steeple-shaking bells
    Can with this single Truth compare -
    That God was man in Palestine
    And lives today in Bread and Wine.

Remembering My Neighbor Esther McGraw

 

Alice C. Linsley

I lived in a small cottage by Kiser Lake in Ohio, near the "Pony Wagon" town of St. Paris. My closest neighbor, Esther McGraw, was one of the sweetest persons I have met. She was a young mother, a devoted wife, a phenomenal cook, and an aspiring writer. Once when I was very sick, she arrived at my house with a pot of delicious homemade chicken noodle soup. That soup and her prayers were restorative!

When she could, Esther would attend the Western Ohio Christian Writers monthly meetings at St. Mark's Episcopal Church in Sidney, Ohio. I helped to establish that group when I served as the Vicar of that parish. 

Esther was always cheerful though she suffered from chronic renal problems and was frequently fatigued. I was very sad when I received the news of her death about 8 years after I moved away.

This Christmas poem, written by Esther, was originally published in the 1996 issue of Selah, an annual publication of the Western Ohio Christian Writers Guild.

Every Eye Upon Him

In a wooden manger a baby meekly rests

with every eye upon Him

and history is made.

Pale starlight for a compass

brings three kings from afar

to kneel before the infant's stall.

Tender Mary gazes there

while Joseph leans upon his staff

and history is made.

A bigger plan of God is set

to save us from our sins and death.

Over Bethlehem the twinkling stars announce

His story has begun.

Three Wise Men

THE WISE MEN

Step softly, under snow or rain,
To find the place where men can pray;
The way is all so very plain
That we may lose the way.

Oh, we have learnt to peer and pore
On tortured puzzles from our youth,
We know all labyrinthine lore,
We are the three wise mert of yore,
And we know all things but the truth.

We have gone round and round the hill,
And lost the wood among the trees,
And learnt long names for every ill,
And served the mad gods, naming still
The Furies the Eumenides.

The gods of violence took the veil
Of vision and philosophy,
The Serpent that brought all men bale,
He bites his own accursed tail,
And calls himself Eternity.

Go humbly ... it has hailed and snowed ...
With voices low and lanterns lit;
So very simple is the road,
That we may stray from it.

The world grows terrible and white,
And blinding white the breaking day;
We walk bewildered in the light,
For something is too large for sight,
And something much too plain to say.

The Child that was ere worlds begun
(... We need but walk a little way,
We need but see a latch undone,...)
The Child that played with moon and sun
Is playing with a little hay.

The house from which the heavens are fed,
The old strange house that is our own,
Where tricks of words are never said.
And Mercy is as plain as bread,
And Honour is as hard as stone.

Go humbly; humble are the skies,
And low and large and fierce the Star;
So very near the Manger lies
That we may travel far.

Hark! Laughter like a lion wakes
To roar to the resounding plain,
And the whole heaven shouts and shakes,
For God Himself is born again,
And we are little children walking
Through the snow and rain.

--G.K. Chesterton

Related reading:  Who Were the Wise Men?

Christmas Day

A SONG OF GIFTS TO GOD

When the first Christmas presents came, the straw where Christ was rolled
Smelt sweeter than their frankincense, burnt brighter than their gold,
And a wise man said, "We will not give; the thanks would be but cold."

"Nay," said the next, "To all new gifts, to this gift or another,
Bends the high gratitude of God; even as He now, my brother,
Who had a Father for all time, yet thanks Him for a Mother.

"Yet scarce for Him this yellow stone or prickly-smells and sparse.
Who holds the gold heart of the sun that fed these timber bars,
Nor any scentless lily lives for One that smells the stars."

Then spake the third of the Wise Men; the wisest of the three:
"We may not with the widest lives enlarge His liberty,
Whose wings are wider than the world. It is not He, but we.

"We say not He has more to gain, but we have more to lose.
Less gold shall go astray, we say, less gold, if thus we choose,
Go to make harlots of the Greeks and hucksters of the Jews.

"Less clouds before colossal feet redden in the under-light,
To the blind gods from Babylon less incense burn to-night,
To the high beasts of Babylon, whose mouths make mock of right."

Babe of the thousand birthdays, we that are young yet grey,
White with the centuries, still can find no better thing to say,
We that with sects and whims and wars have wasted Christmas Day.

Light Thou Thy censer to Thyself, for all our fires are dim,
Stamp Thou Thine image on our coin, for Caesar's face grows dim,
And a dumb devil of pride and greed has taken hold of him.

We bring Thee back great Christendom, churches and towns and towers.
And if our hands are glad, O God, to cast them down like flowers,
'Tis not that they enrich Thine hands, but they are saved from ours.

--G.K. Chesterton

The House of Christmas

THE HOUSE OF CHRISTMAS

There fared a mother driven forth
Out of an inn to roam;
In the place where she was homeless
All men are at home.
The crazy stable close at hand,
With shaking timber and shifting sand,
Grew a stronger thing to abide and stand
Than the square stones of Rome.

For men are homesick in their homes,
And strangers under the sun,
And they lay their heads in a foreign land
Whenever the day is done.
Here we have battle and blazing eyes,
And chance and honour and high surprise,
Where the yule tale was begun.

A Child in a foul stable,
Where the beasts feed and foam;
Only where He was homeless
Are you and I at home;
We have hands that fashion and heads that
But our hearts we lost—how long ago!
In a place no chart nor ship can show
Under the sky's dome.

This world is wild as an old wives' tale,
And strange the plain things are,
The earth is enough and the air is enough
For our wonder and our war;
But our rest is as far as the fire-drake swings
And our peace is put in impossible things
Where clashed and thundered unthinkable wings
Round an incredible star.

To an open house in the evening
Home shall men come,
To an older place than Eden
And a taller town than Rome.
To the end of the way of the wandering star,
To the things that cannot be and that are,
To the place where God was homeless
And all men are at home.

--G.K. Chesterton

The Kerry Christmas Carol

 Brush the floor and clean the hearth,
 And set the fire to keep,
 For they might visit us tonight
 When all the world's asleep.

 Don't blow the tall white candle out
 But leave it burning bright,
 So that they'll know they're welcome here
 This holy Christmas night.

 Leave out the bread and meat for them,
 And sweet milk for the Child,
 And they will bless the fire, that baked
 And, too, the hands that toiled.

 For Joseph will be travel-tired,
 And Mary pale and wan,
 And they can sleep a little while
 Before they journey on.

 They will be weary of the roads,
 And rest will comfort them,
 For it must be many a lonely mile
 From here to Bethlehem.

 O long the road they have to go,
 The bad mile with the good,
 Till the journey ends on Calvary
 Beneath a cross of wood.

 Leave the door upon the latch,
 And set the fire to keep,
 And pray they'll rest with us tonight
 When all the world's asleep.

-- Sigerson Clifford

The Boy Who Laughed at Santa Claus

The Boy Who Laughed at Santa Claus



In Baltimore there lived a boy.

He wasn't anybody's joy.

Although his name was Jabez Dawes,

His character was full of flaws.



In school he never led his classes,

He hid old ladies' reading glasses,

His mouth was open when he chewed,

And elbows to the table glued.

He stole the milk of hungry kittens,

And walked through doors marked NO ADMITTANCE.

He said he acted thus because

There wasn't any Santa Claus.



Another trick that tickled Jabez

Was crying 'Boo' at little babies.

He brushed his teeth, they said in town,

Sideways instead of up and down.

Yet people pardoned every sin,

And viewed his antics with a grin,

Till they were told by Jabez Dawes,

'There isn't any Santa Claus!'



Deploring how he did behave,

His parents swiftly sought their grave.

They hurried through the portals pearly,

And Jabez left the funeral early.



Like whooping cough, from child to child,

He sped to spread the rumor wild:

'Sure as my name is Jabez Dawes

There isn't any Santa Claus!'

Slunk like a weasel of a marten

Through nursery and kindergarten,

Whispering low to every tot,

'There isn't any, no there's not!'



The children wept all Christmas eve

And Jabez chortled up his sleeve.

No infant dared hang up his stocking

For fear of Jabez' ribald mocking.



He sprawled on his untidy bed,

Fresh malice dancing in his head,

When presently with scalp-a-tingling,

Jabez heard a distant jingling;

He heard the crunch of sleigh and hoof

Crisply alighting on the roof.

What good to rise and bar the door?

A shower of soot was on the floor.



What was beheld by Jabez Dawes?

The fireplace full of Santa Claus!

Then Jabez fell upon his knees

With cries of 'Don't,' and 'Pretty Please.'

He howled, 'I don't know where you read it,

But anyhow, I never said it!'

'Jabez' replied the angry saint,

'It isn't I, it's you that ain't.

Although there is a Santa Claus,

There isn't any Jabez Dawes!'



Said Jabez then with impudent vim,

'Oh, yes there is, and I am him!

Your magic don't scare me, it doesn't'

And suddenly he found he wasn't!

From grimy feet to grimy locks,

Jabez became a Jack-in-the-box,

And ugly toy with springs unsprung,

Forever sticking out his tongue.



The neighbors heard his mournful squeal;

They searched for him, but not with zeal.

No trace was found of Jabez Dawes,

Which led to thunderous applause,

And people drank a loving cup

And went and hung their stockings up.



All you who sneer at Santa Claus,

Beware the fate of Jabez Dawes,

The saucy boy who mocked the saint.

Donner and Blitzen licked off his paint.

-- Ogden Nash
 
 

God had a Plan!

Did You Know?

 

Did you know the reason for Christmas?

Do you know the tree represents life?

Did you know the story behind the nativity?

Did you hear about Joseph and his wife?

 

Sin is when

You disobey.

We all sin -

We are born that way.

But God had a plan

He sent His Son

A perfect man

And the only One

Who could forgive us

Because He loved us.

He’s the baby you see

In the nativity.

 

For just like us he was born and died

Yet he never broke the law or lied.

When the breath left from His head,

Three days later He rose from the dead!

Then He returned to His heavenly home

But we are never alone!

He lives in Heaven – the beginning and the end.

He wants you to be His friend.

 

If this thing you do,

When you die

In Heaven you’ll be, too.

I am not exaggerating.

That’s why we are celebrating.

 

--Shelby Stuart (grade 5)

 

 

 

 

Related reading:  Christmas poems by George Herbert; Murmur of Miracles by Ed Pacht; Christmas Fast Approaches by Alice C. Linsley


 

Christmas Fast Approaches

Christmas fast approaches;
Frost is on the wreath.
The cloudless night so bright
brings a canopy of chill.
Split logs stacked by the door
house a mouse or two.
Chimney smoke spirals
through the leafless maple
and warm inside the cottage
grandchildren laugh as they inspect
wrapped gifts under the tree.

--Alice C. Linsley

A Christmas Poem

The First Christmas

Bells are ringing,
and everyone is gay,
happy ones are caroling,
for Christ is born today!

Born in a stable,
with courtiers of sheep,
he could not be more exalted,
this king under stars asleep.

The angels sing a heavenly tune,
to celebrate his birth,
and dancing with stars so bright,
they laugh with unbounded mirth.

The humble shepherds bring their sheep,
the Christ child to behold,
the Wise men come with gifts for the king,
with frankincense and gold.

Mild Mary attends her infant son,
and Joseph watches with care,
as dearest Jesus sleeps in peace,
peace is embodied here.

Chandler Hamby (Grade 6)

Christmas Signs of Love

The Christmas Tree

This seablue fir that rode the mountain storm
Is swaddled here in splints of tin to die.
Sofas around in chubby velvet swarm;
Onlooking cabinets glitter with flat eye;
Here lacquer in the branches runs like rain
And resin of treasure starts from every vein.

Light is a dancer here and cannot rest.
No tanagers or jays are half so bright
As swarms of fire that deep in fragrance nest
In jungles of the gilt exotic night
Where melons hang like moonstone. White above
Rises that perfect star, the sign of love.

On carpets’ fairy turf, in rainbow dark,
Here once the enchanted children laid their heads,
Reached for the floating moon above the park,
And all their hopes were simple blues and reds.
Beneath the electric halo, none could see
Swords in the ankle of the victim tree.

Each named a patron star: Arthur said green
For August in the country; and Betty blue
For swinging and the Florida surf; while Jeanne
Decided gold. One horoscope was true:
The star of Donald low and lava-red—
Enlisted Donald, in Australia dead.

Our lives were bound to sorcery and night.
Zodiacs crumble on the boughs of rust
For every child is gone. Some burned too bright
And now lie broken in the bins of dust;
And some, a fortunate few, adventured far
And found assurance in the perfect star.


--John Frederick Nims

Ed Pacht's Christmas Poem

Murmur of Miracles

Stone-hard frozen winter ground,
stone-hard frozen human hearts,
stone-hard wall of sin before us,
as we bake the bread of misery,
in the oven of rebellion,
in the fires of evil we have made,
and eat that bread of misery
as we stand before that stone-hard wall,
and weep.

A soaring song is sounding in the sparkling sky,
proclaiming there the eight-day dedication
of a blessed Babe in gentle hands,
whose life is light,
as of the lamps before the Ark,
whose candle glow needs no oil,
outshining as it does the bright mist of angels
singing to the trembling shepherds in the field.

A new temple now has come among us.
Behold the shining pillar of hope revealed.
Beyond the night arises our salvation,
and now the veil is torn,
now the stone-hard wall is broken;
now we see the heavens' gates cast wide apart;
and, sin destroyed and stone-hard hearts unfrozen,
we step forth, recite the ancient words
and through the ages enter in
to joy eternal.

- ed pacht

Christmas Poems by George Herbert

George Herbert (1593-1633) was a Welsh poet and Anglican priest. He was born into a wealthy family and received a good education which led him to hold prominent positions at Cambridge University and Parliament. Herbert excelled in languages, music and preaching. His much loved poems are always deeply Christian.

Christmas (I)

After all pleasures as I rid one day,
My horse and I, both tired, body and mind,
With full cry of affections, quite astray;
I took up the next inn I could find.

There when I came, whom found I but my dear,
My dearest Lord, expecting till the grief
Of pleasures brought me to Him, ready there
To be all passengers' most sweet relief?

Oh Thou, whose glorious, yet contracted light,
Wrapt in night's mantle, stole into a manger;
Since my dark soul and brutish is Thy right,
To man of all beasts be not Thou a stranger:

Furnish and deck my soul, that Thou mayst have
A better lodging, than a rack, or grave.



Christmas (II)

The shepherds sing; and shall I silent be?
My God, no hymn for Thee?
My soul's a shepherd too; a flock it feeds
Of thoughts, and words, and deeds.
The pasture is Thy word: the streams, Thy grace
Enriching all the place.
Shepherd and flock shall sing, and all my powers
Outsing the daylight hours.
Then will we chide the sun for letting night
Take up his place and right:
We sing one common Lord; wherefore he should
Himself the candle hold.
I will go searching, till I find a sun
Shall stay, till we have done;
A willing shiner, that shall shine as gladly,
As frost-nipped suns look sadly.
Then will we sing, and shine all our own day,
And one another pay:
His beams shall cheer my breast, and both so twine,
Till ev'n His beams sing, and my music shine.