‘twas the night before Christmas, he lived all alone,
in a one bedroom house made of plaster and stone.
I come down the chimney with presents to give
and to see just who I in this house to live.
I looked all about, a strange sight I did see,
no tinsel, no presents, not even a tree.
No stocking by mantle, no boots filled with sand,
on the wall hung pictures of far-off distant lands.
With medals and badges, awards of all kinds,
a sober thought came through my mind.
For this house was different, it was dark and dreary,
I found the home of the soldier, once I could see clearly.
The soldier lay sleeping, silent, alone,
curled up on the floor in this one-bedroom home.
The face was so gentle, the room in such disorder,
not how I pictured a United States soldier.
Was this the hero of whom I just read?
Curled up on a poncho, the floor for a bed?
I realized the families that I saw this night,
owe their lives to the soldiers who were willing to fight.
Soon round the world, the children would play,
and grown-ups would celebrate a bright Christmas day.
They all enjoyed freedom each month of the year,
because of the soldiers, like the one lying here.
I couldn’t help wondering how many lay alone,
on a cold Christmas Eve land far from home.
The very thought brought a tear to my eye,
I dropped to my knees and started to cry.
The soldier awakened and I heard a rough voice,
“Santa don’t cry, this life is my choice,
I fight for freedom, I don’t ask for more
my life is my God my country my corps.”
The soldier rolled over and drifted to sleep,
I couldn’t control it, I continued to weep
I kept watch for hours, so silent still
and we both shivered from the cold night’s chill.
I didn’t want to leave on that cold, dark night,
this guardian of honor so willing to fight
then the soldier rolled over, with the voice soft and pure,
whispered, “carry on Santa, its Christmas day, all is secure
one look at my watch, and I knew he was right
Merry Christmas to my friend, and to all a good night.”
Christian Writer 