From the archive
When you’re down to me, you’re through,
No more shopping left to do.
There is only one gift
That will give me a lift:
All I want for Christmas is you.
Some in sorrow the very name eases,
Some in excess the same name displeases:
Why is one thus engaged
And the other enraged,
Why such different reactions to Jesus?
Do you feel you’ve been left in the lurch
And not found what you sought in your search?
Why continue to roam
When it’s time to come home?
Why not join us this Christmas in church?
Comes the end of the overlong night
And the dawn of the life-giving Light:
Pagans say Christians stole this,
But the old winter solstice
Foreshadowed a predestined rite.
I’m not certain it actually pays
To be part of the Black Friday craze.
Am I first in the store?
No, I’m at the wrong door
– After camping out 25 days.
Briefly now is theirs the throne,
Fame and fortune overblown,
And the ones oppressed
Ever after blessed
When the Savior claims His own.
If these weeks must be spent at the mall,
Baskets bulging with kitsch big and small;
Christmas prelude must be
A nonstop shopping spree,
Do we miss the true gist of it all?
Once in time a virgin birth
Incarnated on the earth
God’s Son despised
To redeem us by His worth.
“If you really would like to assist us,
Please bring everything on our list, plus
A candidate we
Can support heartily –
Because that’s what we want most for Christmas!”
This Christmas, I’m not being shy;
I want something no money can buy:
For our country to be
Always brave, always free,
Always true to our Father on high.
I remember with special delight
How each holiday had its own rite:
Now that commerce trumps living,
We skip over Thanksgiving
And start Christmas on Halloween night.
Tis the season of change and of hope –
The kind that is real and not soap –
But, to meet your Messiah,
You will have to look higher
Than some fast-talking, power-mad dope.
There is nothing quite so pleasant
As an instant evanescent:
With the past behind
And no future defined,
We are given the perfect present.
Thanta, there’th a thpaith
I’d like you to replaith:
I’ll jump with glee
When all can thee
The thmile upon my faith.
“I know just what I want for a gift,
And I’ll throw such a fit if I’m stiffed!
If you fail to come through,
Who knows what I might do?”
The pathetic executive sniffed.
At Thanksgiving we pull out the stopper
On commercialized Christmastime proper:
We’ll have six months to pay,
But stay out of the way
Of the stampeding psychotic shopper!
All the creches are empty, it’s true,
And I’m waiting for Jesus anew;
Harking back to the Book,
I know now where to look:
I must find the Lord Jesus in you.
There is less than a month left, you know,
Only 21 days in a row,
Barely 500 hours
To buy yours, mine, and ours,
30,000 mere minutes to go!
If you find “Frohliche Weihnachten” odd,
“Buon Natale” and “Feliz Navidad,”
Even “Joyeux Noel”
Unfamiliar as well,
“Merry Christmas” should then get the nod.
Tell me how can an innocent Child —
Holy Infant, so tender and mild —
Be the object of scorn
From the moment He’s born:
Rejected, resented, reviled?
Is there somewhere I can go
That the Santas do not know,
A Santa-free zone
I can call my own
And not hear that “ho ho ho”?
DECK THE GALS
“Merry Christmas!” she crowed, and then smiled,
Leaving less seasoned shoppers beguiled.
“Now get out of my way
‘Cause I don’t have all day
And I must have that toy for my child!”
YULE GET OVER IT
So what if you feel disempowered
By someone who’s grimaced or glowered?
If you’re frightened to say
“Merry Christmas” today,
You’re simply a Noel coward!
MERRY CHRISTMAS, BEDFORD FALLS!
He’s known plenty of struggle and strife,
But George Bailey is blessed with a wife
And family and friends
On whom he depends:
What he has is a wonderful life.
Who but a hardhearted heathen
For some nefarious reason
Would ignore the morn
When our Savior was born
And call Christmas the “holiday season”?
Last week’s limerick
“It’s now time to suspend the discussions
And consider the grim repercussions:
It’s true Trump had an ace
In the Limbaugh fan base
And engaged in collusion with Rush-ians.”