• Oh, she sighed and held her face
    Near the warm room's tender and simple grace.

    The time was coming, ever soon.
    The sleigh would soon cross the face of the moon.

    The bells would forever sing,
    And etern'lly would the church bells ring.

    For midnight was near, the stroke of twelve.
    With her book at hand, she secretly delved

    On the secrets of Christmas, how the story began
    With a Savior, some angels, a virgin, a man.

    As gifts were laid by the heavenly heap,
    Next to the oxen, the virgin, the a**, and the sheep.

    And on that fateful and miraculous night,
    The world's heavy darkness was conquered by light.

    The girl closed the book, and set it aside.
    But the cover of her companion, she undoubtedly spied.

    Christ's crumpled figure, pried onto the cross.
    His feet dipped in a pool of chaos

    That writhed and shrieked below him, in pleasure and in pain.
    In mourning, in shock, in impatience and disdain.

    The girl held her teddy bear close, for she knew not how to react.
    But no object, no words, no promise could remove the force of impact.

    She grew and lived, and loved, and believed
    That her joy, her blessings, her grace - from Christ this was all conceived.

    She remembered well, many moons after, the night where questions ran high.
    How a human who loved all the beings of the earth was born, simply to die.

    An old woman lay, withered and old, on the hospital bed, one day.
    She shut her eyes, held her teddy bear tight, and the monsters scampered away.

    And then she finally realized, for the first time in ninety-three years.
    That the story of Christ was one of hope, not only one of tears.

    Like every story, there is a beginning, and forward you ascend.
    But unlike the story you've recently heard, the story of Christ knows no end.