A time of blessings and happiness.
A time of caroling and songs.
A time for giving thanks.
A time for presents for all.
A time of good cheer and friendship.
A time of love for all.
A time for helping others.
But most of all Christmas is a time to stop and thank God for all that we have.
The Eve of Christmas
Poet: Pope Leo XIII
Cometh the yearly Feast, the wonderous Holy Night,
Worthy of sacred hymn and solemn rite.
No harbingers of joy the olden message sing,
Nor gifts of Peace to waiting mortals bring.
Alone the thronging hosts of evil men I hear,
And see the anxious brow and falling tear.
The Age will bear no yoke; forgets the God above,
Nor duteous payment yields to parents' love.
Suspicious Discord rends the peaceful State in twain,
And busy Murder follows in her train.
Gone are the loyal faith, the rights revered of old--
Reigns but a blind and cruel lust of Gold!
O come, Thou holy Child! Pity the fallen world,
Lest it should perish, into darkness hurled.
Out of the laboring Night grant it a newer birth,
And a New Age to bloom o'er all the earth.
Circle with splendors old the brow of Faith divine;
Let her full glory on the nations shine.
Nerve her to battlings new; palsy her foes with dread;
Place the victorious laurel on her head.
Be Error's mist dissolved, and ancient feuds repressed,
Till Earth at last find quietude and rest.
O gentle Peace, return nor evermore depart;
And link us hand in hand and heart to heart!
Poet: Louis Alexander Robertson
A manger-cradled child, his mother near,
And one they call his father standing by,
Shepherd and Magi, with the gifts they bear,
An angel chorus rolling through the sky-
Once more the sacred mystery we scan,
And wonder if the Christ be God's best gift to man.
Pale, patient Pleader, for the poor and those
Whose hearts are homes of sorrow and of pain,
Thy voice is as a balm for all their woes;
Through twenty centuries it calleth plain
As when it breathed the invitation blest-
"Ye weary, come to Me, and I will give you rest."
Reason may seek to ruin, science scorn,
But that great love of Thine hath made us wise
In wisdom not of understanding born,
That bids us turn to Thee with longing eyes
And outstretched hands. We know that Thou art He.
Nor do we seek a sign as did the Pharisee.
Sweet festival that bringeth back once more
The golden dreams of childhood, let us turn
Like little children to the Christmas lore
That once did hold us spellbound, till we learn
Again the lesson of Thy love; for we
Must be like children, Lord, ere we can come to Thee.