Not gilded halls nor creeds we may recite,
but quiet acts that bloom in winter’s chill–
a patient word, a hand that lifts the slight,
a gift unearned, yet given with goodwill–
reveal a grace that asks for no return.
A flame that warms, though kindled at a cost,
can light the dark where weary spirits yearn
and find the broken, though the giver’s lost.
So let this season teach our hearts to see
the tender power of self-forgetting care
and, finding honest strength on humble knee,
let’s sow small mercies in the frosted air.
For Christmas whispers, soft as falling snow:
“It’s when we give ourselves that graces flow.”