The crystal star was gleaming bright
From the topmost branch on Christmas night.
I sat alone, and icicles twirled
And twinkled at me from their tinsel world.
Beneath the tree, where gifts had lain,
The cross of the wooden base was plain
Through the cotton snow, and I was stirred
By a thought so true that I almost heard.
Beneath the beauty, the glitter and the gloss,
No Christmas wholly conceals the Cross,
For there is a form that each must own,
Geometry of flesh and bone.
And Bethlehem’s star can never die;
The heart’s own cross will hold it high.
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