The stockings hang beside the hearth,
the holly on the door.
The children hope that they’ve been good --
but they’re not sure.
They think of sometimes thieving fingers,
sticky with cookie-guilt.
A tear creeps to their eye at the corners
as they think of the milk they’ve spilt.
And oh! What of the times they tried,
but failed, to say their prayers?
Lo, woe! their whole life seems to proceed
in the spotlight of grownups’ stares.
the list of sins grows long.
Like toddlers walking, they sway on the fence
dividing Right from Wrong.
The stockings hang like judgment
as the children search their souls.
Will sweetmeats by their portion --
or a lump of cold black coal?
Toys left lying, beds unmade,
the Sunday suit awry.
There was even a time, they know to their shame,
when they told -- O coal! -- a lie!
The children crawl between the sheets
on the night before Christmas day.
The pillow against their cheek is wet.
Their lips begin to pray.
The stockings hang from the scaffold.
The dark tree stands by the stair.
Yet as they pray they hear the toll
of sleighbells in the air.
Behold! A chariot slices the sky,
the stars roll back in a tide.
Saint Nicholas stands upon the helm,
the Virgin by his side.
And all the angels whirl like fire,
bearing the carriage along.
The heavens thunder with the choir
of joyful Christmas song.
Sugarplums shower from the tree
where CHRIST was crucified.
Raised souls join in a jubilee
redeemed by Him who died.
The children stare at Santa Claus
as light streams from his face.
Their present’s the best that ever there was --
the gift of Grace.
~ ~ ~
For a further story of miracles through grace,
have a look at this: