The Stable Of Bethlehem
’Twas not a palace proud and fair
He chose for His first home;
No dazz’ling pile of grandeur rare,
With pillar’d hall and dome;
Oh no! a stable, rude and poor,
Received Him at His birth;
And thus was born, unknown, obscure,
The Lord of Heaven and Earth.
No band of anxious menials there,
To tend the new-born child,
Joseph alone and Mary fair
Upon the infant smiled;
No broidered linens fine had they
Those little limbs to fold,
No baby garments rich and gay,
No tissues wrought with gold.
Come to your Saviour’s lowly bed,
Ye vain and proud of heart!
And learn with bowed and humbled head
The lesson ’twill impart;
’Twill teach you not to prize too high
The riches vain of earth—
But to lay up in God’s bright sky
Treasures of truer worth.
And you, poor stricken sons of grief,
Sad outcasts of this life,
Come, too, and seek a sure relief
For your heart’s bitter strife;
Enter that village stable door,
And view that lowly cot—
Will it not teach you to endure,
And even bless your lot?
poem by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Related quotes
The Village Girl And Her High-Born Suitor
“O maiden, peerless, come dwell with me,
And bright shall I render thy destiny:
Thou shalt leave thy cot by the green hillside,
To dwell in a palace home of pride,
Where crowding menials, with lowly mien,
Shall attend each wish of their lovely queen.”
“Ah! stranger my cot by the green hillside
Hath more charms for me than thy halls of pride;
If the roof be lowly, the moss rose there
Rich fragrance sheds on the summer air;
And the birds and insects, with joyous song,
Are more welcome far than a menial throng.”
“Child, tell me not so! too fair art thou,
With thy starry eyes and thy queenlike brow,
To dwell in this spot, sequestered and lone,
Thy marvelous beauty to all unknown;
And that form, which might grace a throne, arrayed
In the lowly garb of a peasant maid.”
“Nay, a few short days since didst thou not say
That I in my rustic kirtle gray
In thine eyes looked lovelier fairer far
Than robed in rich state as court ladies are;
And the wreath of violets in my hair
Pleased thee more than diamond or ruby rare.”
“Beloved! if thus coldly thou turn’st aside
From the tempting lures of wealth and pride,
Sure thy woman’s heart must some pity own
For one who breathes for thy self alone,
And who would brave suffering, grief and toil
To win from thy rose lips one shy, sweet smile.”
“Ah! enough of this—thy love may be true,
But I have tried friends who love me too;
And in proud homes governed by fashion’s voice,
Thou would’st learn to blush for thy lowly choice.
Go, seek thee a noble, a high born bride,
And leave me my cot by the green hillside!”
poem by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Sonnet 21: So is it not with me as with that muse
So is it not with me as with that muse,
Stirred by a painted beauty to his verse,
Who heaven it self for ornament doth use
And every fair with his fair doth rehearse,
Making a couplement of proud compare
With sun and moon, with earth and sea's rich gems,
With April's first-born flowers, and all things rare
That heaven's air in this huge rondure hems.
O, let me, true in love, but truly write,
And then, believe me, my love is as fair
As any mother's child, though not so bright
As those gold candles fixed in heaven's air.
Let them say more that like of hearsay well;
I will not praise that purpose not to sell.
poem by William Shakespeare
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Sonnet 21
So is it not with me as with that Muse,
Stirred by a painted beauty to his verse,
Who heaven itself for ornament doth use
And every fair with his fair doth rehearse,
Making a couplement of proud compare
With sun and moon, with earth and sea's rich gems,
With April's first-born flowers, and all things rare,
That heaven's air in this huge rondure hems.
O! let me, true in love, but truly write,
And then believe me, my love is as fair
As any mother's child, though not so bright
As those gold candles fixed in heaven's air:
Let them say more that like of hearsay well;
I will not praise that purpose not to sell.
poem by William Shakespeare from Sonnets (1609)
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
Vote! | Copy! | In Romanian
The Gift Of The Maji (Bble Poems for Children)
Three Kings followed a star,
Studying the heavens from
afar.
They knew the king would be
born,
Sometime in the early morn.
In Jeruselem they did meet,
Asked about a baby so
sweet.
They saw a star ever so high,
Above a stable, in the sky.
This is the saviour, born on
earth,
Honor him with gifts and myrrh.
They had a dream from God, that
day,
Go home now, don't delay.
Joseph also had a dream,
God told him of Herod's scheme.
To kill baby Jesus, was his
plight.
Joseph, and Mary escaped at
night.
In Egypt they had to stay,
Until Herod's life had passed
away.
poem by Heather Burns
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
A Contemplation upon Flowers
BRAVE flowers--that I could gallant it like you,
And be as little vain!
You come abroad, and make a harmless show,
And to your beds of earth again.
You are not proud: you know your birth:
For your embroider'd garments are from earth.
You do obey your months and times, but I
Would have it ever Spring:
My fate would know no Winter, never die,
Nor think of such a thing.
O that I could my bed of earth but view
And smile, and look as cheerfully as you!
O teach me to see Death and not to fear,
But rather to take truce!
How often have I seen you at a bier,
And there look fresh and spruce!
You fragrant flowers! then teach me, that my breath
Like yours may sweeten and perfume my death.
poem by Henry King
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Baby Emmanuel On Christmas Day
A Lamb of God is born tonight,
And sleeps upon just hay;
The boy must Shepherd flocks to light.
Be King on Judgment Day!
He chose a manger, poor and cold;
The earth He made hadn't room!
‘A Virgin gave Him birth, ' we're told,
He is the world's Bridegroom!
Shepherds by fire-side were first,
To have a glimpse of the child;
They worshipped Him for He was Christ,
Though born both meek and mild!
A star atop the stable stood:
A sign of kingly birth!
For mankind's sins, yet, die, He would,
To give us endless mirth!
O baby Jesus, born today,
'Come dwell within my heart! '
'You are the light and truth and way,
Be with me, don't depart! '
poem by John Celes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Christmas 2011
There’s no room in the inn tonight!
But Mary needs some place;
’Tis time for Jesus to be born;
Joseph wears vexed a face!
And Lo! They get the stable just;
The hay becomes the bed,
Where baby Jesus born is placed,
Swaddled in clothes to head!
An angel choir then brings shepherds,
Who sat around a fire;
With trumpets’ sound, good news is told,
With words played on lyre!
The Star of Bethlehem then stops,
Atop the inn for Kings;
Three Magi enter to worship
Boy Christ, the ‘King of Kings! ’
The Son of God is become flesh
In Mary’s womb on earth;
The love of God is born a man:
Emmanuel brings earth, mirth!
On Christmas Day, a Savior’s born,
In pitiable, a state;
He came to earth to save sinners,
And take to Heaven’s gate!
Copyright by Dr John Celes 3-12-11
poem by John Celes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
A Christmas Carol
Welcome, sweet Christmas, blest be the morn
That Christ our Saviour was born!
Earth's Redeemer, to save us from all danger,
And, as the Holy Record tells, born in a manger.
Chorus --
Then ring, ring, Christmas bells,
Till your sweet music o'er the kingdom swells,
To warn the people to respect the morn
That Christ their Saviour was born.
The snow was on the ground when Christ was born,
And the Virgin Mary His mother felt very forlorn
As she lay in a horse's stall at a roadside inn,
Till Christ our Saviour was born to free us from sin.
Oh! think of the Virgin Mary as she lay
In a lowly stable on a bed of hay,
And angels watching O'er her till Christ was born,
Therefore all the people should respect Christmas morn.
The way to respect Christmas time
Is not by drinking whisky or wine,
But to sing praises to God on Christmas morn,
The time that Jesus Christ His Son was born;
Whom He sent into the world to save sinners from hell
And by believing in Him in heaven we'll dwell;
Then blest be the morn that Christ was born,
Who can save us from hell, death, and scorn.
Then he warned, and respect the Saviour dear,
And treat with less respect the New Year,
And respect always the blessed morn
That Christ our Saviour was born.
For each new morn to the Christian is dear,
As well as the morn of the New Year,
And he thanks God for the light of each new morn.
Especially the morn that Christ was born.
Therefore, good people, be warned in time,
And on Christmas morn don't get drunk with wine
But praise God above on Christmas morn,
Who sent His Son to save us from hell and scorn.
There the heavenly babe He lay
In a stall among a lot of hay,
While the Angel Host by Bethlehem
Sang a beautiful and heavenly anthem.
Christmas time ought to be held most dear,
Much more so than the New Year,
Because that's the time that Christ was born,
Therefore respect Christmas morn.
And let the rich be kind to the poor,
And think of the hardships they do endure,
Who are neither clothed nor fed,
And Many without a blanket to their bed.
poem by William Topaz McGonagall
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Gentlemen of Dickens
The gentlemen of Dickens
Were mostly very poor,
And innocent of grammar,
And of parentage obscure;
But rich or poor or thriving,
Of high or lowly birth,
The gentlemen of Dickens
Were the grandest on the earth.
The gentlemen of Dickens,
They wore no fancy names—
Like Reginald or Percy
Fitzgerald or FitzJames;
But names for fools to laugh at,
That sound like hob-nailed boots,
Like Newman Noggs and Knubbles,
Toodles and Mr Toots.
They’d little save their kindness,
Their honesty and truth;
They mostly came embarrassed,
And stammering and uncouth;
But the gentlemen of Dickens,
Their women and their girls,
Could speak their minds if need be
To ladies and to earls.
But one who wore a title
A lesson, too, could teach:
Lord Feenix—Cousin Feenix
Of wandering legs and speech.
O he might teach a lesson
A gentleman could give,
Where he stands by his “lovely
And accomplished relative”.
The gentlemen of Dickens
Were gamblers now and then
(And looked upon the ladies,
No doubt, like other men);
And some of them were drunkards,
It cannot be denied;
But one washed all their sins away
When Sidney Carton died.
The gentlemen of Dickens
Are round us here to-day,
For their self-sacrificing
Brave spirits live for aye.
They cheer my heart and lift it,
They set my blood aglow,
For I was once a gentleman,
Though it was years ago.
poem by Henry Lawson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Teaching the scriptures
Child of the thoughtful brow,
The speaking eye and the confiding look!
List to those teachings now,
And make thy guiding star that Blessed Book.
If bright thy course of life,
'Twill shed around thy path a holier ray;
If dark with storms and strife,
'Twill beam like sunlight on thy dreary way.
Come while around thee clings
The joyousness and innocence of birth;
Come, ere thy spirit's wings
Are wet with tears and stained with hues of earth.
Like tendrils of the vine,
Those deep affections with thy heart inwove,
Must round some prop entwine;
They ask some object for their wealth of love.
And if that object be
Earth-born and mortal, they will languish still:
There is a vacancy
In woman's heart, that God alone can fill.
poem by Anne Lynch Botta from Poems (1848)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
Vote! | Copy!
Teach Me, Lord
Please teach me, Lord, I'm ready now,
As ready as could be,
No longer proud and so I bow
Before Your Majesty...
For who am I and what am I
Of all on Earth below?
And yet for me, Your Son would die,
And to His Cross would go...
They beat Him up, they crushed His face,
They scourged His back as well...
You placed on Christ our great disgrace...
That grace saves us from Hell...
To think, they forced a crown of thorns
Into Christ's battered head
And Mother Mary deeply mourns
Lord Jesus lying dead...
But God, You would not spare Your Son!
You raised Him from the Tomb,
You glorified what Christ had done,
You overcame the gloom...
You sent Your Spirit to the Earth,
For Pentecostal praise,
To sanctify and prove His worth,
For only Christ obeys...
The Saviour of the world lives on,
He lives in hearts now warmed,
Because the hearts of stone are gone,
God-blessed, reborn, transformed.
The mortal flesh gets old and dies,
Our riches turn to dust,
Yet all the faithful realise -
The Trinity we trust...
That's why the rich and poor alike
Give money left and right,
The iron's hot and so they strike
And give with all their might.
The widow's mite was praised by Christ,
For she gave all she had...
Thus God knew what was sacrificed
And He was mighty glad...
Do not condemn the poor, my friends,
God hears their prayers each day...
He shares a love that never ends
And never fades away...
One day, the Son of Man will claim
The Bride of Christ and more...
One day, the world will praise His Name!
That's not what He died for...
He died to set us free from sin,
He died our lives to save,
He died our precious souls to win,
He died our sins to waive...
He lives to bless us, every one,
He lives to guide us through...
And blessed are those who hear God's Son,
Who whispers, 'I LOVE YOU...'
Please teach me, Lord, I'm ready now,
As ready as could be,
No longer proud and so I bow
Before Your Majesty...
For who am I and what am I
Of all on Earth below?
And yet for me, Your Son would die
And to His Cross would go...
Denis Martindale, copyright, May 2011.
poem by Denis Martindale
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Birth of Christ
Behold the lamb of God is born this day!
In a manger warm with beddings of hay.
Where beasts inhabit and drop their waste,
fit for none else but those of lowly caste.
Behold the infant Lord whose lowly birth
was marked by celestials in joy and mirth.
In an orchestra in the distant sky,
they played the first carol right there on high.
poem by Joseph C Ogbonna (20 December 2019)
Submitted by Joseph C Ogbonna
Vote! | Copy!
When Christ was Born
On that divine all-hallowed morn
When Christ in Bethlehem was born,
How lone did Mary seem to be,
The kindly beasts for company!
Yet when she saw her infant's face—
Fair with the soul's unfading grace,
Softly she wept for love's excess,
For painless ease and happiness.
She pressed her treasure to her heart—
A lowly mother, set apart
In the dear way that mothers are,
And heaven seemed nigh, and earth afar:
And when grave kings in sumptuous guise
Adored her babe, she knew them wise;
For at his touch her sense grew dim—
So all her being worshiped him.
A nimbus seemed to crown the head
Low-nestled in that manger-bed,
And Mary's forehead, to our sight,
Wears ever something of its light;
And still the heart—poor pensioner!
In its affliction turns to her—
Best loved of all, best understood,
The type of selfless motherhood!
poem by Florence Earle Coates from Mine and Thine (1904)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
Vote! | Copy!
The First Christmas
A clear bright star shone night and day
to guide the seekers on their way.
A child was to be born of heavenly love
sent from the Almighty up above.
A man and woman journeyed all the day
to the town where they wanted to stay.
She was expecting her baby very soon
and they must arrive before the moon.
She rode as he pulled the donkey along,
but the journey was taking far too long.
It was dark when they finally got to town
and no Inns were left to bed Mary down.
The pains of birth were coming her way
and somewhere was needed without delay.
A bed of straw was offered in a nearby stable,
which made Joseph and Mary very grateful.
The animal’s closeness kept the stable warm
and during the night the baby Jesus was born.
All kinds of people came from near and wide
to celebrate the first ever Christmas Tide.
poem by Orlando Belo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Mary, Mother Of Jesus
In Roman times, when swords were raised,
And peace on Earth was rare,
There lived a girl now highly praised,
A girl beyond compare...
Her name was Mary, Joseph's love,
Betrothed, untouched by Man...
Who met an angel from above
Who then revealed God's plan!
'Young maiden, you are full of grace!
The Lord chose you of all!
You shall conceive and then embrace
The child that God must call!
He shall be king and rightly so,
Begotten of the Lord!
And blessed is he, God's Son to know...
So, Mary, be assured! '
God's Son was born as prophesied!
To Mary, here on Earth...
In time, she saw Him crucified!
Esteemed not for His worth!
Her heart was broken just like His!
She held his mortal frame!
And neath her tears, a final kiss
As she whispered His name...
Her heart was numbed just like her soul...
With trembling hands she prayed...
Although she knew God kept control,
Her spirit was dismayed!
With trembling lips she sought His peace,
Like none on Earth before!
In hopes her faith would thus release
A miracle and more!
When Jesus left His tomb of death,
The sun was rising, too...
The Saviour savoured God's new breath
And knew what He must do...
'With God, all things are possible!
Forgiveness, born of faith! '
Such is the Gospel preached by Paul
To those whom God would save...
poem by Denis Martindale
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Hands that Hang Down
O lord, I am so tired!
My heart is sick and sore.
I work, and work, and do no good—
And I can try no more!
I lay my treasures up,
And think they're worth such care;
And the next time I go to look,
There's only rubbish there!
I tug hard at the door
Of knowledge—strain and pant;
But, Lord, the more I seem to learn,
The more I'm ignorant!
Sometimes I am so vain
I set myself to teach;
But e'en the first beginnings lie
Utterly out of reach!
I am no use—no use!
I thought I might have been;
But now I know how small I am,
How poor, how false, how mean!
Sunk in the dust and mire
While aiming at the skies,
Only a thing to laugh at, Lord,
To pity and despise!
poem by Ada Cambridge
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Nativity
Peace? and to all the world? sure, One
And He the Prince of Peace, hath none.
He travels to be born, and then
Is born to travel more again.
Poor Galilee! thou canst not be
The place for His nativity.
His restless mother's called away,
And not delivered till she pay.
A tax? 'tis so still! we can see
The church thrive in her misery;
And like her Head at Bethlem, rise
When she, oppressed with troubles, lies.
Rise? should all fall, we cannot be
In more extremities than He.
Great Type of passions! come what will,
Thy grief exceeds all copies still.
Thou cam'st from heaven to earth, that we
Might go from earth to heaven with Thee.
And though Thou foundest no welcome here,
Thou didst provide us mansions there.
A stable was Thy court, and when
Men turned to beasts, beasts would be men.
They were Thy courtiers, others none;
And their poor manger was Thy throne.
No swaddling silks Thy limbs did fold,
Though Thou couldst turn Thy rays to gold.
No rockers waited on Thy birth,
No cradles stirred, nor songs of mirth;
But her chaste lap and sacred breast
Which lodged Thee first did give Thee rest.
But stay: what light is that doth stream,
And drop here in a gilded beam?
It is Thy star runs page, and brings
Thy tributary Eastern kings.
Lord! grant some light to us, that we
May with them find the way to Thee.
Behold what mists eclipse the day:
How dark it is! shed down one ray
To guide us out of this sad night,
And say once more, "Let there be light."
poem by Henry Vaughan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Death of the Old Mendicant
There was a rich old gentleman
Lived on a lonely moor in Switzerland,
And he was very hard to the wandering poor,
'Tis said he never lodged nor served them at his door.
'Twas on a stormy night, and Boreas blew a bitter blast,
And the snowflakes they fell thick and fast,
When a poor old mendicant, tired and footsore,
Who had travelled that day fifteen miles and more,
Knocked loudly at the rich man's door.
The rich man was in his parlour counting his gold,
And he ran to the door to see who was so bold,
And there he saw the mendicant shivering with the cold.
Then the mendicant unto him said,
My dear sir, be not afraid,
Pray give me lodgings for the night,
And heaven will your love requite;
Have pity on me, for I am tired and footsore,
I have travelled fifteen miles to-day and more.
Begone! you vagabond, from my door!
I never give lodgings to the poor;
So be off, take to your heels and run,
Or else I'll shoot you with my gun!
Now do not think I'm making fun;
Do you hear, old beggar, what I say?
Now be quick! and go away.
Have mercy, sir, I cannot go,
For I shall perish in the snow;
Oh! for heaven's sake, be not so hard
And God will your love reward.
My limbs are tired, I cannot go away,
Oh! be so kind as let me stay.
'Twas vain! the rich man said, I shan't,
And shut his door on the mendicant,
And said, That is the way I'll serve the poor
While I live on this lonely moor.
Then the old mendicant did go away,
And, murmuring to himself, did say,
Oh, woe's me that ever I was born!
Oh, God, protect me from the storm!
My feeble limbs refuse to go,
And my poor heart does break with woe.
Then he lay down and died among the snow.
He was found by the rich man's shepherd next day,
While he was searching for sheep that had gone astray;
And he was struck with fear and woe
To see the body lying dead among the snow.
So the shepherd ran home and told his master
About the very sad disaster;
That he had found a dead body in the snow,
But whose it was he did not know.
Then the rich man ordered the body to be brought to his house
And to be instantly dressed by his loving spouse,
For his conscience smote him with fear and woe,
When he heard of the old mendicant being found dead in the snow.
So the poor old mendicant was buried without delay
In a very respectable way,
And from that very day the rich man was kind to the poor
And never turned any one away from his door.
poem by William Topaz McGonagall
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Happy Birthday Jesus (I'll Open This One For You)
(I'll Open This One For You)
(Arranged by Reba McEntire)
Now kids hang on just a second before we start
You know there's a reason we are all here in front of Grandma and
Grandpa's
Christmas tree
And if Trevor and E.P. would quit fighting long enough and be real
quiet
This little song might help ya understand
Long ago in a stable there was a baby being born
His parents were Joseph and Mary
And Joseph's big ole heart was torn
Cause he couldn't find a decent place for Mary to have her child
But Mary said it just seemed just right and she blessed it with her
smile
Chorus:
Cause what made it special was the baby in her arms
God sent Him down to give the world a second chance for you and I
That's why we have Christmas at this time each year
It's the baby's birthday party that brings us so much cheer
Now kids the presents that all of you exchange on Christmas
Represents the gifts that baby Jesus received the night he was born
He got all his presents from three wise men
Who followed a star
And walked a long long way to the stable
So everytime you tear open one of your presents
Think about that baby and say
Happy birthday Jesus
I'll open this one for you
Repeat Chorus
OK all together now
Happy Birthday Jesus
I'll open this one just for you
song performed by by Reba Mcentire
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
‘He came unto His own, and His own received Him not’
As Christ the Lord was passing by,
He came, one night, to a cottage door.
He came, a poor man, to the poor;
He had no bed whereon to lie.
He asked in vain for a crust of bread,
Standing there in the frozen blast.
The door was locked and bolted fast.
‘Only a beggar!’ the poor man said.
Christ the Lord went further on,
Until He came to a palace gate.
There a king was keeping his state,
In every window the candles shone.
The king beheld Him out in the cold.
He left his guests in the banquet-hall.
He bade his servants tend them all.
‘I wait on a Guest I know of old.’
‘’Tis only a beggar-man!’ they said.
‘Yes,’ he said; ‘it is Christ the Lord.’
He spoke to Him a kindly word,
He gave Him wine and he gave Him bread.
Now Christ is Lord of Heaven and Hell,
And all the words of Christ are true.
He touched the cottage, and it grew;
He touched the palace, and it fell.
The poor man is become a king.
Never was man so sad as he.
Sorrow and Sin on the throne make three,
He has no joy in mortal thing.
But the sun streams in at the cottage door
That stands where once the palace stood.
And the workman, toiling to earn his food,
Was never a king before.
poem by Mary Elizabeth Coleridge
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!