"God bless us every one, prayed Tiny Tim,

Crippled and dwarfed of body, yet so tall

Of soul, we tiptoe earth to look on him, 

High towering over all."

                                                _{-James Whitcomb Riley}

"Oh! But he was a tight-fiste hand at the grind-
stone, Scrooge! a squeezing, wrenching, grasping,
scraping, clutching, covetous, old sinner! Hard and
sharp as flint, from which no steel had ever struck out
generous fire; secret, and self-contained, and solitary
as an oyster. The cold within him froze his old features,
nipped his pointed nose, shrivelled his cheek,
stiffened his gait; made his eyes red, his thin lips blue;
and spoke out shrewdly in his grating voice."

   _{- A Christmas Carol, Stave 1: Marley's Ghost}

But let it whistle as it will,

We'll keep our hristmas merry still.

                        _{-Sir Walter Scott}

"Announced by all the trumpets of the sky
Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields,
Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air
Hides hills and woods, the river and the heaven,
And veils the farm-house at the garden's end.
The steed and traveller stopped, the courier's feet
Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit
Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed
In a tumultuous privacy of storm."

                                    _{-Ralph Waldo Emerson}

I'd load the wagon with caramels

And a candy of every kind

And buy all the almond and pecan nuts

And taffy that I could find;

And barrels and barrels of oranges

I'd scatter right in the way,

So the children would find them the very first thing

When they wake on Christmas Day.

                _{-Eugene Field}

"The earth has grown old with its burden of care But at Christmas it always is young, The heart of the jewel burns lustrous and fair And its soul full of music breaks the air, When the song of angels is sung."              _{-Phillip Brooks}

In the bleak mid-winter
Frosty wind made moan,
Earth stood hard as iron,
Water like a stone;
Snow had fallen, snow on snow,
Snow on snow,
In the bleak mid-winter,
Long ago.

Our God, heaven cannot hold him,
Nor earth sustain;
Heaven and earth shall flee away
When he comes to reign:
In the bleak mid-winter
A stable-place sufficed
The Lord God Almighty
Jesus Christ.

Enough for him, whom Cherubim
Worship night and day,
A breastful of milk
And a mangerful of hay;
Enough for him, whom angels
Fall down before,
The ox and ass and camel
Which adore.

What can I give him,
Poor as I am?
If I were a shepherd
I would bring a lamb;
If I were a wise man
I would do my part;
Yet what I can I give him -
Give my heart.
                                        _{-Christina Rossetti}

Make yourselves nests of pleasant thoughts.  None of us yet know,
for none of us have been taught in early youth, what fairy palaces
we may build of beautiful thoughts, as proof against all adversity.
We may build bright, beautiful memories, noble histories,
faithful sayings, treasure-houses of precious and restful thoughts,
which care cannot disturb, pain make gloomy, or poverty take away
from us.  They are houses built without hands, for our souls to live in.

_{-John Ruskin}

“What means this glory round our feet,”
The Magi mused, “more bright than morn!”
And voices chanted clear and sweet,
“Today the Prince of Peace is born!”
“What means this star,” the shepherds said,
“That brightens through the rocky glen?”
And angels answering overhead,
Sang “Peace on earth, good will to men!”

                                        _{-James Russell Lowell}

How far is it to Bethlehem?
    Not very far.
Shall we find the stable room
    Lit by a star?

Can we see the little child,
    Is he within?
If we lift the wooden latch
    May we go in?

May we stroke the creatures there,
    Ox, ass, or sheep?
May we peep like them and see
    Jesus asleep?

If we touch his tiny hand
    Will he awake?
Will he know we've come so far
    Just for his sake?

Great kings have precious gifts,
    And we have naught,
Little smiles and little tears
    Are all we brought.

For all weary children
    Mary must weep.
Here, on his bed of straw
    Sleep, children, sleep.

God in his mother's arms,
    Babes in the byre,
Sleep, as they sleep who find
    Their heart's desire.

                            _{-Frances Chesterton}

God Came Near

                    _{-Max Lucado}