The Hour of Christmas

By
James L Beene

Where is He who was born so long ago?
His love reaches out like star points to light the hearts of men,
But so many hearts just dance like slivery drops of glass
And the light scatters and falls.

The final winds of Winter flow and only His light
Can ever bring the hope of Spring.

Where is He who was born so long ago?
Can he be found in scent of pine or ribbons red with glitter
Or vague laughter that hopes to recall
A joy now lost where men had hearts?

If we could give love as we give our gifts of wood,
Then Christ would be born in every hour in every heart...
Then Spring.

 

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