Today is Christmas and I offer (a poor effort of poesy on my part) a tale which is known near and far.

There is a tale told from old

Two thousand years plus a number more

Of starry skies and winds blown cold

From heav’n to earth with angels by score

To shepherds appearing at dark of night

Telling of a glorious delight

Quiver and shake in dread they fear

As news of great joy rings round their state

A King is born in Bethlehem near

Why stand thus still, for time does not wait

With haste to see your King new born

And Bethlehem gain ere the morn

Our flocks to care, the young lass, we allot

Haste then we with gifts to see that which is new

To Bethl’hem we traverse and tarry not

To see our King which was told to so few

Kneel in adoration in place so low

Gifts we have not only hearts to bestow

Pensive sits she and ponders all that was brought

Then rises and runs with pace and fast

O’er hill and dale with anxious thought

She hurries on while strength does last

To see this King in Bethlehem born

Tho’ clad in rags, so rough and torn

A stable warm with ox and ass

Manger blest, and parents rest

Sweet smell of hay and breath of kine

Animals nigh, kneel before their guest

Here shepherds bow, their homage pay

Good news to men they then relay

In vain she seeks a gift from near

But naught is found for such a King

Who lies in stable sleeping without fear

Dare she enter with nothing

In despair, she searches near and far

For that which is pure and without mar

A seraph nigh, with piteous eye

Whisks with wing, the snow aside

A rose, pure, white and fair, for her to espy

And gathering close, with ox and ass beside

She gifts a ‘Christmas rose’ to the infant King

And all heav’n and earth rejoice and sing