hristmas Poem Hello everyone, I was raised in Wisconsin among many cold winters and driven to writing by two great, wonderful parents, whose imagination left all of their children wide-eyed with excitement during the holidays. I was told by my father that the pines talk when the wind blows....and if you listen..you can hear them. I hope this story will leave your family with an adventure into the woods to hear the pines talking. The Littlest Christmas Tree © Amy Peterson The littlest Christmas tree, lived in a meadow of green, Among a family, of tall evergreens, He learned how to whisper, the evergreen song, with the slightest of wind, that came gently along. He watched as the birds, made a home out of twigs, and couldnt wait till, he too was big. For all of the trees, offered a home, the maple, the pine, and the oak, whos so strong. I hate being little, the little tree said, I cant even turn colors, like the maple turns red, I cant help the animals, like the mighty old oak, He shelters them all, in his wide mighty cloak. The older tree said, Why little tree you dont know? The story of a mighty king, from the land with no snow? Little tree questioned, A land with no snow? Yes! said old tree, A very old story, from so long ago. A star appeared, giving great light, over a manger, on long winters night. A baby was born, a king of all kings, and with him comes love, over all things. He lived in a country, all covered in sand, and laid down his life, to save all of man. Little tree thought of the gift given by him, then the big tree said with the happiest grin, Were not just trees, but a reminder of that day, theres a much bigger part, of a role that we play! For on Christmas eve, my life Ill lay down, in exchange for a happier, loving ground. And as I stand dying, theyll adorn me in trim, this all will be done, in memory of him. Among a warm fire, with family and friends, in the sweet songs of Christmas, Ill find my great end, then ever so gently, hell come down to see, and take me to heaven, Jesus and me. So you see little tree, we are not like the oak, who shelters all things, beneath his great cloak. Nor are we like the maple in fall, whos colors leave many, standing in awe. The gift that we give, is ourselves, limb for limb, the greatest of honor, in memory of him. The little tree bowed, his head down and cried, and thought of the king, who willingly died. For what kind of gift, can anyone give? Then to lay down your life, when you wanted to live. A swelling of pride came over the tree, Can all of this happen? Because of just me? Can I really bring honor? By adorning a home? By reminding mankind, that hes never alone? With this thought, little tree, began singing with glee, Happy and proud, to be a true Christmas tree. You can still hear them singing, even the smallest in height, singing of Christmas, and that one holy night. Advertisements
Posted on: Mon, 28 Oct 2013 10:50:06 +0000
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