Christmas Poems Page 5

The Christmas Star
Poet: Julie Hebert, 2012

Christmas is a magical time,
For young and also old.
The season brings so much to see,
And so many stories are told.

The biggest story of the holiday,
Is of the Christmas star.
Sitting out on Christmas Eve,
We are reminded who we are.

Christmas is about one thing.
Not presents or of toys.
Christmas is of joy and peace,
And happy family noise.

Christmas is the spirit of happiness,
And of being with those you love.
It is a time to give thanks and show your love,
And in times of need, look up above.

Christmas became because of one,
And we have him to thank.
Next time you see that star shine bright,
Say a prayer for Jesus sake.

The Christmas star is a presence,
One in which is a thrill.
Although it seems impossible now,
He stands among us still.

He Stands Among Us Still!
Poet: Nancy Byrd Turner

High in the heavens a single star,
Of pure, imperishable light;
Out on the desert strange and far
Dim riders riding through the night:

Above a hilltop sudden song
Like silver trumpets down the sky--
And all to welcome One so young
He scarce could lift a cry!

Stars rise and set, that star shines on:
Songs fail, but still that music beats
Through all the ages come and gone,
In lane and field and city streets.

And we who catch the Christmas gleam,
Watching with children on the hill,
We know, we know it is no dream -
He stands among us still!

All That is Christmas
Poet: Julie Hebert, 2011

Christmas is more than just presents,
It's love and harmony.
Together with friends and family,
Laughing and being funny.

We sing so many carols,
That we can't forget the tunes.
Christmas is so very exciting,
Especially in the afternoons.

Mornings are about Santa,
Exchanging our lovely gifts.
But afternoons are about loving,
All those who we feel fit.

Christmas Is . . .
Poet: Julie Hebert, 2011

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!

The Nazarine
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.

More Christmas Poems:

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