"Autobiographies of great nations are written in three manuscripts – a book of deeds, a book of words, and a book of art. Of the three, I would choose the latter as truest testimony." - Sir Kenneth Smith, Great Civilisations
"I must write each day without fail, not so much for the success of the work, as in order not to get out of my routine." - Leo Tolstoy
I have never believed that one should wait until one is inspired because I think the pleasures of not writing are so great that if you ever start indulging them you will never write again. - John Updike
"The life of every man is a diary in which he means to write one story, and writes another; and his humblest hour is when he compares the volume as it is with what he vowed to make it." - J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan
Poetry is the shadow cast by our streetlight imaginations." - Lawrence Ferlinghetti
[Note - If any article requires updating or correction please notate this in the comment section. Thank you. - res]
The apostles said to the Lord, "Increase our faith!" The Lord replied, "If you had faith the size of a mustard seed, you could say to this mulberry tree, `Be uprooted and planted in the sea,' and it would obey you.
What caught my attention this week were the three words at the beginning of the text: Increase our faith!
Three words carry emotional and spiritual weight — you can feel the disciples’s longing to trust deeply, to believe more fervently. Sometimes three words are all that are needed.
Three word theologies in the New Testament:
God is love
Love your neighbor
Here am I
Be not afraid
Peace on earth
Love one another
Do unto others
Faith, hope, love
Pray like this
Go, do likewise
God will provide
Love is patient
Love your enemies
Seventy times seven
Thy Kingdom come
Love never fails
Increase our faith
Mustard seed faith
Honestly, who needs tomes of systematic doctrine when we have such concise wisdom at hand? Three word theology is deceptively simple, but it isn’t shallow. One could live a lifetime with this list and never grasp its full beauty or practice its teachings consistently. But these uncomplicated phrases beckon, holding our hearts and hopes, and offering a vision of love and mercy. The way is often found in the smallest things, the fewest words. Maybe all we need is mustard seed faith.
INSPIRATION
Lord of the growing seed, you reach to the roots of our being and quench our sea-deep thirst: help us to know ourselves through the eyes of the other who calls us to answer and serve and, in the end, be filled.
— Steven Shakespeare
Love is a place & through this place of love move (with brightness of peace) all places
yes is a world & in this world of yes live (skilfully curled) all worlds
On Sundays, the preacher gives everyone a chance to repent their sins. Miss Edna makes me go to church. She wears a bright hat I wear my suit. Babies dress in lace. Girls my age, some pretty, some not so pretty. Old ladies and men nodding. Miss Edna every now and then throwing her hand in the air. Saying Yes, Lord and Preach! I sneak a pen from my back pocket, bend down low like I dropped something. The chorus marches up behind the preacher clapping and humming and getting ready to sing. I write the word HOPE on my hand.
— Jacqueline Woodson
Who ever saw the mustard-plant, wayside weed or tended crop, grow tall as a shrub, let alone a tree, a treeful of shade and nests and songs? Acres of yellow, not a bird of the air in sight.
No, He who knew the west wind brings the rain, the south wind thunder, who walked the field-paths running His hand along wheatstems to glean those intimate milky kernels, good to break on the tongue,
was talking of miracle, the seed within us, so small we take it for worthless, a mustard-seed, dust, nothing. Glib generations mistake the metaphor, not looking at fields and trees, not noticing paradox. Mountains remain unmoved.
Faith is rare, He must have been saying, prodigious, unique — one infinitesimal grain divided like loaves and fishes,
as if from a mustard-seed a great shade-tree grew. That rare, that strange: the kingdom
a tree. The soul a bird. A great concourse of birds at home there, wings among yellow flowers. The waiting kingdom of faith, the seed waiting to be sown.
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write to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Company, 215 Park Avenue South, New York, New York 10003.
HC ISBN 0-395-06952-1
PA ISBN 0-395-64374-0
Printed in the United States of America
LBM 40 39 38 37 36
INTRODUCTION
mid the many celebrations last Christmas Eve, in various places by different persons, there was one, in New York City, not like any other anywhere. A company of men, women, and children went together just after the evening service in their church, and, standing around the tomb of the author of “A Visit from St. Nicholas,” recited together the words of the poem which we all know so well and love so dearly.
Dr. Clement C. Moore, who wrote the poem, never expected that he would be remembered by it. If he expected to be famous at all as a writer, he thought it would be because of the Hebrew Dictionary that he wrote.
He was born in a house near Chelsea Square, New York City, in 1781; and he lived there all his life. It was a great big house, with fireplaces in it;—just the house to be living in on Christmas Eve.
Dr. Moore had children. He liked writing poetry for them even more than he liked writing a Hebrew Dictionary. He wrote a whole book of poems for them.
One year he wrote this poem, which we usually call “’Twas the Night before Christmas,” to give to his children for a Christmas present. They read it just after they had hung up their stockings before one of the big fireplaces in their house. Afterward, they learned it, and sometimes recited it, just as other children learn it and recite it now.
It was printed in a newspaper. Then a magazine printed it, and after a time it was printed in the school readers. Later it was printed by itself, with pictures. Then it was translated into German, French, and many other languages. It was even made into “Braille”; which is the raised printing that blind children read with their fingers. But never has it been given to us in so attractive a form as in this book. It has happened that almost all the children in the world know this poem. How few of them know any Hebrew!
Every Christmas Eve the young men studying to be ministers at the General Theological Seminary, New York City, put a holly wreath around Dr. Moore’s picture, which is on the wall of their dining-room. Why? Because he gave the ground on which the General Theological Seminary stands? Because he wrote a Hebrew Dictionary? No. They do it because he was the author of “A Visit from St. Nicholas.”
Most of the children probably know the words of the poem. They are old. But the pictures that Miss Jessie Willcox Smith has painted for this edition of it are new. All the children, probably, have seen other pictures painted by Miss Smith, showing children at other seasons of the year. How much they will enjoy looking at these pictures, showing children on that night that all children like best,—Christmas Eve!
E. McC.
was the night before Christmas, when all through the house Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse; The stockings were hung by the chimney with care In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there;
he children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads; And mamma in her kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled our brains for a long winter’s nap,
hen out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.
he moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below,
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer,
ith a little old driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name:
ow, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen!
On, Comet! on, Cupid! on, Donder and Blitzen!
To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!
Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!”
s dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky;
So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,
With the sleigh full of Toys, and St. Nicholas too.
nd then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.
e was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;
A bundle of Toys he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack.
is eyes—how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow;
he stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath;
He had a broad face and a little round belly,
That shook when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly.
e was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself;
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread;
e spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk,
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose;
e sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,
“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night.”
* * * * * * *
"Herding Sheep in a Winter Landscape at Sunset," by Joseph Farquharson
Christmas has a darkness Brighter than the blazing noon, Christmas has a chillness Warmer than the heat of June, Christmas has a beauty Lovelier than the world can show: For Christmas bringeth Jesus, Brought for us so low.
Earth, strike up your music, Birds that sing and bells that ring; Heaven has answering music For all angels soon to sing: Earth, put on your whitest Bridal robe of spotless snow: For Christmas bringeth Jesus, Brought for us so low.
*Longfellow wrote this poem in reference to the Civil War.
I heard the bells on Christmas Day Their old, familiar carols play, __And wild and sweet __The words repeat Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
And thought how, as the day had come, The belfries of all Christendom __Had rolled along __The unbroken song Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
Till ringing, singing on its way, The world revolved from night to day, __A voice, a chime, __A chant sublime Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
Then from each black, accursed mouth The cannon thundered in the South, __And with the sound __The carols drowned Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
It was as if an earthquake rent The hearth-stones of a continent, __And made forlorn __The households born Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
And in despair I bowed my head; “There is no peace on earth,” I said; __“For hate is strong, __And mocks the song Of peace on earth, good-will to men!”
Then pealed the bells more loud and deep: “God is not dead, nor doth He sleep; __The Wrong shall fail, __The Right prevail, With peace on earth, good-will to men.”
Out of the bosom of the Air, __Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken, Over the woodlands brown and bare, __Over the harvest-fields forsaken, ____Silent, and soft, and slow ____Descends the snow.
Even as our cloudy fancies take __Suddenly shape in some divine expression, Even as the troubled heart doth make __In the white countenance confession, ____The troubled sky reveals ____The grief it feels.
This is the poem of the air, __Slowly in silent syllables recorded; This is the secret of despair, __Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded, ____Now whispered and revealed ____To wood and field.
* * * * * * *
THE BURNING BABE - Sting (Teddy Lappage Cover). Premiered Dec 18, 2020 It's been a long time - but finally I have uploaded! This video cover was recently featured as part of the Enfield Loves Music at Christmas Concert, supported by the charity Enfield Sounds Great.
Originally a poem by St. Robert Southwell SJ, a Jesuit martyr, it was set to music and arranged by the artist Sting for his album 'If On a Winter's Night...'. I've always loved the whole album, and specifically this song coming from a Jesuit education myself. The dichotomy between a joyous arrangement and quite macabre images is very intriguing, and as always playing lots of instruments has been really fun - especially since I get to let out my folk side!
Sep 14, 2009 Established in 1929, Decca is the legendary British record label, home to some of the greatest recording artists ever. Visit the Decca Store at https://decca.lnk.to/StoreID Join the official mailing list for news and offers in your inbox: https://decca.lnk.to/NewsletterSignUpID If On A Winter's Night presents an arc of songs that conjure the season of spirits, the eerie silences of the snow; days of solitude and reflection for some, a time of re-birth and celebration for many.
As I in hoary winter’s night stood shivering in the snow, Surpris’d I was with sudden heat which made my heart to glow; And lifting up a fearful eye to view what fire was near, A pretty Babe all burning bright did in the air appear; Who, scorchèd with excessive heat, such floods of tears did shed As though his floods should quench his flames which with his tears were fed. “Alas!” quoth he, “but newly born, in fiery heats I fry, Yet none approach to warm their hearts or feel my fire but I! My faultless breast the furnace is, the fuel wounding thorns, Love is the fire, and sighs the smoke, the ashes shame and scorns; The fuel Justice layeth on, and Mercy blows the coals, The metal in this furnace wrought are men’s defiled souls, For which, as now on fire I am to work them to their good, ___So will I melt into a bath to wash them in my blood.” ___With this he vanish’d out of sight and swiftly shrunk away, ___And straight I callèd unto mind that it was Christmas day.
Silver bells! What a world of merriment their melody foretells! How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, In the icy air of night! While the stars that oversprinkle All the heavens, seem to twinkle With a crystalline delight; Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells From the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells— From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.
Ring out, ye crystal spheres! Once bless our human ears, If ye have power to touch our senses so; And let your silver chime Move in melodious time; And let the bass of heaven’s deep organ blow; And with your ninefold harmony Make up full consort of the angelic symphony.
XIV For, if such holy song Enwrap our fancy long, Time will run back and fetch the Age of Gold; And speckled Vanity Will sicken soon and die, And leprous Sin will melt from earthly mould; And Hell itself will pass away, And leave her dolorous mansions of the peering day.
XV Yes, Truth and Justice then Will down return to men, The enamelled arras of the rainbow wearing; And Mercy set between, Throned in celestial sheen, With radiant feet the tissued clouds down steering; And Heaven, as at some festival, Will open wide the gates of her high palace-hall.
XVI But wisest Fate says No, This must not yet be so; The Babe lies yet in smiling infancy That on the bitter cross Must redeem our loss, So both himself and us to glorify: Yet first, to those chained in sleep, The wakeful trump of doom must thunder through the deep,
XVII With such a horrid clang As on Mount Sinai rang, While the red fire and smouldering clouds outbrake: The aged Earth, aghast With terror of that blast, Shall from the surface to the centre shake, When, at the world’s last sessiön, The dreadful Judge in middle air shall spread his throne.
XVIII And then at last our bliss Full and perfect is, But now begins; for from this happy day The Old Dragon under ground, In straiter limits bound, Not half so far casts his usurpèd sway, And, wroth to see his Kingdom fail, Swindges the scaly horror of his folded tail.
XIX The Oracles are dumb; No voice or hideous hum Runs through the archèd roof in words deceiving. Apollo from his shrine Can no more divine, Will hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving. No nightly trance, or breathèd spell, Inspires the pale-eyed Priest from the prophetic cell.
XX The lonely mountains o’er, And the resounding shore, A voice of weeping heard and loud lament; Edgèd with poplar pale, From haunted spring, and dale The parting Genius is with sighing sent; With flower-inwoven tresses torn The Nymphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn.
XXI In consecrated earth, And on the holy hearth, The Lars and Lemures moan with midnight plaint; In urns, and altars round, A drear and dying sound Affrights the Flamens at their service quaint; And the chill marble seems to sweat, While each peculiar power forgoes his wonted seat.
XXII Peor and Baälim Forsake their temples dim, With that twice-battered god of Palestine; And moonèd Ashtaroth, Heaven’s Queen and Mother both, Now sits not girt with tapers’ holy shine: The Libyc Hammon shrinks his horn; In vain the Tyrian maids their wounded Thammuz mourn.
XXIII And sullen Moloch, fled, Hath left in shadows dread His burning idol all of blackest hue; In vain with cymbals’ ring They call the grisly king, In dismal dance about the furnace blue; The brutish gods of Nile as fast, Isis, and Orus, and the dog Anubis, haste.
XXIV Nor is Osiris seen In Memphian grove or green, Trampling the unshowered grass with lowings loud; Nor can he be at rest Within his sacred chest; Nought but profoundest Hell can be his shroud; In vain, with timbreled anthems dark, The sable-stolèd Sorcerers bear his worshiped ark.
XXV He feels from Juda’s land The dreaded Infant’s hand; The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyn; Nor all the gods beside Longer dare abide, Not Typhon huge ending in snaky twine: Our Babe, to show his Godhead true, Can in his swaddling bands control the damnèd crew.
XXVI So, when the Sun in bed, Curtained with cloudy red, Pillows his chin upon an orient wave, The flocking shadows pale Troop to the infernal jail, Each fettered ghost slips to his several grave, And the yellow-skirted Fays Fly after the night-steeds, leaving their moon-loved maze.
XXVII But see! the Virgin blest Hath laid her Babe to rest, Time is our tedious song should here have ending: Heaven’s youngest-teemèd star Hath fixed her polished car, Her sleeping Lord with handmaid lamp attending; And all about the courtly stable Bright-harnessed Angels sit in order serviceable.
Eight-year-old Virginia O’Hanlon wrote a letter to the editor of New York’s Sun, and the quick response was printed as an unsigned editorial Sept. 21, 1897. The work of veteran newsman Francis Pharcellus Church has since become history’s most reprinted newspaper editorial, appearing in part or whole in dozens of languages in books, movies, and other editorials, and on posters and stamps
DEAR EDITOR: I am 8 years old.
Some of my little friends say there is no Santa Claus.
Papa says, ‘If you see it in THE SUN it’s so.’
Please tell me the truth; is there a Santa Claus?
VIRGINIA O’HANLON.
115 WEST NINETY-FIFTH STREET.
VIRGINIA, your little friends are wrong. They have been affected by the skepticism of a skeptical age. They do not believe except what they see. They think that nothing can be which is not comprehensible by their little minds. All minds, Virginia, whether they be men’s or children’s, are little. In this great universe of ours man is a mere insect, an ant, in his intellect, as compared with the boundless world about him, as measured by the intelligence capable of grasping the whole of truth and knowledge.
Yes, VIRGINIA, there is a Santa Claus. He exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy. Alas! how dreary would be the world if there were no Santa Claus. It would be as dreary as if there were no VIRGINIAS. There would be no childlike faith then, no poetry, no romance to make tolerable this existence. We should have no enjoyment, except in sense and sight. The eternal light with which childhood fills the world would be extinguished.
Not believe in Santa Claus! You might as well not believe in fairies! You might get your papa to hire men to watch in all the chimneys on Christmas Eve to catch Santa Claus, but even if they did not see Santa Claus coming down, what would that prove? Nobody sees Santa Claus, but that is no sign that there is no Santa Claus. The most real things in the world are those that neither children nor men can see. Did you ever see fairies dancing on the lawn? Of course not, but that’s no proof that they are not there. Nobody can conceive or imagine all the wonders there are unseen and unseeable in the world.
You may tear apart the baby’s rattle and see what makes the noise inside, but there is a veil covering the unseen world which not the strongest man, nor even the united strength of all the strongest men that ever lived, could tear apart. Only faith, fancy, poetry, love, romance, can push aside that curtain and view and picture the supernal beauty and glory beyond. Is it all real? Ah, VIRGINIA, in all this world there is nothing else real and abiding.
No Santa Claus! Thank God! he lives, and he lives forever. A thousand years from now, Virginia, nay, ten times ten thousand years from now, he will continue to make glad the heart of childhood.
mid the many celebrations last Christmas Eve, in various places by different persons, there was one, in New York City, not like any other anywhere. A company of men, women, and children went together just after the evening service in their church, and, standing around the tomb of the author of “A Visit from St. Nicholas,” recited together the words of the poem which we all know so well and love so dearly.
was the night before Christmas, when all through the house
he children were nestled all snug in their beds,
hen out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
ow, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen!
s dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
nd then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
e was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
is eyes—how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!
he stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
e was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
