The First Christmas

by Marian Swinger

It never snows at Christmas in that dry and dusty land.

Instead of freezing blizzards, there are palms and drifting sands,

and years ago a stable and a most unusual star

and three wise men who followed it, by camel, not by car,

while, sleepy on the quiet hills, a shepherd gave a cry.

He’d seen a crowd of angels in the silent starlit sky.

In the stable, ox and ass stood very still and calm

and gazed upon the baby, safe and snug in Mary’s arms.

And Joseph, lost in shadows, face lit by an oil lamp’s glow

stood wondering, that first Christmas Day, two thousand years ago