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.
Untidiness,
disobedience,
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:
