‘Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the inn,
Sojourners lay sleeping, with no room to win.
Mary had wanted a crib on that day,
But nothing was offered but manger and hay.
Bethlehem slumbered, all Judea slept,
Nobody knowing this secret she kept.
The people arrived there, by order of Rome,
To register families by ancestral home.
This night, as on others, the shepherds and sheep
Alone on the hillside, at peace and asleep,
Heard angels and choir song only in dreams,
Mixed with the bleating, the snoring, the streams.
And distant, far eastward, the Magi looked on
For signs of good fortunes, from dusk until dawn.
No heavenly beacon—no star—would yet stir.
No gifts yet acquired: gold, frankincense, myrrh.
The dream of the angel—still vivid, still clear—
Echoed to Joseph the words, “Do not fear!
“This Son Whom she carries has come from on high,
To teach you to love me, to preach…and to die.”
In Jerusalem city, the palace was still,
Alone in the shadow of Golgotha’s hill.
No weeping in Ramah, no killing of babes
Had Herod yet ordered. No small, shallow graves.
‘Twas the night before Christmas. This baby unborn,
Knew naught of betrayal, rejection, or scorn—
No disappointment. No tears were yet shed.
But the manger was readied—his soon-to-be bed.
For God, the next morning, would grant to this earth
The way of salvation—this sacrifice birth.
And this night, our God whispered amid sinners’ strife,
Merry Christmas to all, and eternal life!
—Darrell Zuercher
December 2005
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