Was it a cold awakening Christmas morning In a wooden trough, In spite of straw and swaddling clothes and angel songs? That was not to be the last time You'd be laid upon the wood (There were Herods, Judases from the start Among the stars and shepherds). And did they smile, those simple folk, And kiss your tiny hands and weep delight? They'd touch those hands again someday, Believing you through cracks and scars. Then oh! the million Christmas mornings When you'd lie, a babe again, Beneath a million million trees And hear the countless tongues chanting your name. And oh! the white snow on black shingles Where icy crystals capture windows And fires glow and mistletoe is wreathed and strung. But ah . . . will they remember crimson Dripping from the iron nails And will they pray and will they know A whiter white than Snow?