I have loved poems since I was eight. I remember that moment so distinctly: my 3rd grade teacher picking a white chalk, and putting our first poem down on our classroom’s blackboard. I was immediately captured by the beauty of the art of writing poems – stanzas, rythm and rhyme. Little did I know that 30 years later, I would start writing my own. 

The below selection of four Christmas poems are not my own, but the beautiful work of William Arthur Dunkerley, aka John Oxenham. Courtesy of poetrycat.com. Hope you will enjoy them.

Merry Christmas!

Poem 1:  CREDO

 

Not what, but WHOM, I do believe,
That, in my darkest hour of need,
Hath comfort that no mortal creed
To mortal man may give;–
Not what, but WHOM!

For Christ is more than all the creeds,
And His full life of gentle deeds
Shall all the creeds outlive.
Not what I do believe, but WHOM!

WHO walks beside me in the gloom?
WHO shares the burden wearisome?
WHO all the dim way doth illume,
And bids me look beyond the tomb
The larger life to live?–

Not what I do believe,
BUT WHOM!
Not what,
But WHOM!

– A poem by William Arthur Dunkerly on poetrycat.com

Poem 3:  THE CHRIST

The good intent of God became the Christ.

And lived on earth–the Living Love of God,
That men might draw to closer touch with heaven,
Since Christ in all the ways of man hath trod. 

– A poem by William Arthur Dunkerly on poetrycat.com

Poem 2: A SILENT TE DEUM
  

We thank Thee, Lord,
For all Thy Golden Silences,–

For every Sabbath from the world’s turmoil;
For every respite from the stress of life;–
Silence of moorlands rolling to the skies,
Heath-purpled, bracken-clad, aflame with gorse;

Silence of grey tors crouching in the mist;
Silence of deep woods’ mystic cloistered calm;
Silence of wide seas basking in the sun;
Silence of white peaks soaring to the blue;
Silence of dawnings, when, their matins sung,
The little birds do fall asleep again;
For the deep silence of high golden noons;

Silence of gloamings and the setting sun;
Silence of moonlit nights and patterned glades;
Silence of stars, magnificently still,
Yet ever chanting their Creator’s skill;
For that high silence of Thine Open House,
Dim-branching roof and lofty-pillared aisle,
Where burdened hearts find rest in Thee awhile;

Silence of friendship, telling more than words;
Silence of hearts, close-knitting heart to heart
Silence of joys too wonderful for words;
Silence of sorrows, when Thou drawest near;
Silence of soul, wherein we come to Thee,
And find ourselves in Thine Immensity;

For that great silence where Thou dwell’st alone–
–Father, Spirit, Son, in One,
Keeping watch above Thine Own,–
Deep unto deep, within us sound sweet chords
Of praise beyond the reach of human words;
In our souls’ silence, feeling only Thee,–

We thank Thee, thank Thee,
Thank Thee, Lord!

– A poem by William Arthur Dunkerly on poetrycat.com

Poem 4: THE CHILD OF THE MAID

On Christmas Day The Child was born,
On Christmas Day in the morning;–
–To tread the long way, lone and lorn,
–To wear the bitter crown of thorn,
–To break the heart by man’s sins torn,
–To die at last the Death of Scorn.
For this The Child of The Maid was born,
On Christmas Day in the morning.

But that first day when He was born,
Among the cattle and the corn,
The sweet Maid-Mother wondering,
And sweetly, deeply, pondering
The words that in her heart did ring,
Unto her new-born king did sing,–

“My baby, my baby,
My own little son,
Whence come you,
Where go you,
My own little one?
Whence come you?

Ah now, unto me all alone
That wonder of wonders is properly known.
Where go you?
Ah, that now, ’tis only He knows,
Who sweetly on us, dear, such favour bestows.
In us, dear, this day is some great work begun,–
Ah me, little son dear, I would it were done!
I wonder … I wonder …
And–wish–it–were–done!

“O little, little feet, dears.
So curly, curly sweet!–
How will it be with you, dears,
When all your work’s complete?

O little, little hands, dears,
That creep about my breast!–
What great things you will do, dears,
Before you lie at rest!

O softest little head, dear,
It shall have crown of gold,
For it shall have great honour
Before the world grows old!

O sweet, white, soft round body,
It shall sit upon a throne!
My little one, my little one,
Thou art the Highest’s son!
All this the angel told me,
And so I’m sure it’s true,
For he told me who was coming,–
And that sweet thing is YOU.”

On Christmas Day The Child was born,
On Christmas Day in the morning;–
–He trod the long way, lone and lorn,
–He wore the bitter crown of thorn,
–His hands and feet and heart were torn,
–He died at last the Death of Scorn.
But through His coming Death was slain,
That you and I might live again.
For this The Child of The Maid was born,
On Christmas Day in the morning.

– A poem by William Arthur Dunkerly on poetrycat.com