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Christmas · Ririro.com - Poetry

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  Speaker 1: Christmas. Mother, when Christmas comes once more, I do not
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  Speaker 1: wish that you should buy sweet things for me again,
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  Speaker 1: as you were used to do. The taste of cakes
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  Speaker 1: and sugar plums is pleasant to me, yet and temptingly
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  Speaker 1: the gay shops look with their fresh stores outset. But
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  Speaker 1: I have learned, dear Mother, that the poor and wretched
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  Speaker 1: slave must toil to win their sweetness from the cradle
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  Speaker 1: to the grave. And when he faints with weariness beneath
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  Speaker 1: the torrid sun, the keen lash urges on his toil
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  Speaker 1: until the day is done. But when the Holy Angel's
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  Speaker 1: Hymn on Judea's plains Afar pealed sweetly on the shepherd's
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  Speaker 1: ear neath Bethlehem's wondrous star, they sang of glory to
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  Speaker 1: our God, peace and good will to men. For Christ,
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  Speaker 1: the Savior of the world, was born amidst them then,
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  Speaker 1: And is it for his glory Men are made to toil,
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  Speaker 1: with weary limbs and breaking hearts upon another's soil, that
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  Speaker 1: they are taught not of his law to know his
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  Speaker 1: holy will, and that he hates the deed of sin
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  Speaker 1: and loves the righteous still. And is it peace and
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  Speaker 1: love to men to bind them with the chain, and
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  Speaker 1: sell them like the beasts that feed upon the grassy plain,
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  Speaker 1: to tear their flesh with scourgings rude, and from the
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  Speaker 1: aching heart the ties to which it fondliest clings forevermore
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  Speaker 1: to part. And tis because of all this sin, my mother,
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  Speaker 1: that I shun to taste the tempting sweets for which
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  Speaker 1: such wickedness is done. If men to men will be unjust,
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  Speaker 1: if slavery must be mother, the chain must not be warm,
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  Speaker 1: the scourge be plied for me