24 December 2016

On This Christmas Eve

I would be true, for there are those who trust me;
I would be pure, for there are those who care;
I would be strong, for there is much to suffer;
I would be brave, for there is much to dare;
I would be brave, for there is much to dare.

I would be friend of all--the foe, the friendless;
I would be giving, and forget the gift;
I would be humble, for I know my weakness;
I would look up, and laugh, and love and lift.
I would look up, and laugh, and love and lift.

I would be faithful through each passing moment;
I would be constantly in touch with God;
I would be strong to follow where He leads me;
I would have faith to keep the path Christ trod;
I would have faith to keep the path Christ trod.


--Howard Arnold Walter, 1906




3 comments:

Long-Skirts said...

That is a powerful poem, thank you for it this Christmas Eve morn...

THE
MORNING
OF
CHRISTMAS EVE

It is the morn
Of Christmas Eve,
Scrambled eggs I cook.

Advent's Sunday,
Fourth and last
Most fasting now forsook.

The birds outside
Are singing carols
Pitched soprano-high.

Above the frost
Below the blue,
Their midnight moment nigh.

Then beasts will speak
In whispers low,
When Emmanuel did come,

How they could talk
And pray an hour...
While man was struck quite dumb.

Conscientious Catholic said...

Every year we are invited to Bethlehem. When we arrive, what do we see? As the French poet Paul Claudel says in 1936, nothing but "three poor people who love one another; but, three poor people who will change the face of the earth."

Merry CHRIST-MASS!

DJR said...

My all-time favorite Christmastime poem is "The Burning Babe" from the martyr Saint Robert Southwell. To think he is a Jesuit!


As I in hoary winter’s night stood shivering in the snow,
Surprised I was with sudden heat which made my heart to glow.
And lifting up a fearful eye to view what fire was near,
A pretty Babe all burning bright did in the air appear,
Who, scorched with excessive heat, such floods of tears did shed,
As though his floods should quench his flames which with his tears were fed.
“Alas!” quoth he, “but newly born, in fiery heats I fry,
Yet none approach to warm their hearts or feel my fire but I!
My faultless breast the furnace is, the fuel wounding thorns,
Love is the fire, and sighs the smoke, the ashes shame and scorns.
The fuel Justice layeth on, and Mercy blows the coals,
The metal in this furnace wrought are men’s defiled souls,
For which, as now on fire I am to work them to their good,
So will I melt into a bath to wash them in my blood.”

With this he vanished out of sight and swiftly shrunk away,
And straight I called unto mind that it was Christmas day.